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BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


F. E. MILLS YOUNG 



BEATRICE 
A S H L E I G H 


BY 

F. E. MILLS YOUNG 

AUTHOR OF “THE BYWONNER, 
“GRIT LAWLESS,” ETC. 


“Our strength grows out of our weakness. 
Not until we are 'pricked and stung and sorely 
shot at, awakens the indignation which arms 
itself with secret forces.”— E merson. 


NEW 



YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



Copyright, 1918 , 

By George E. Dorm Company 


j 

Printed in the United States of America 

SEP 23 1918 r 


©CI.A5G3502 


TO 

MY MOTHER 










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BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 



























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BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


I 


OU might,” Robert Earlton observed, in a tone 



A of reluctant admiration despite its annoyance, 
“have left him one eye to see clear with. What were 
you thrashing him for ?” 

The person who had been thrashed, a boy of thir- 
teen, had fled ignominiously as soon as, through the 
intercession of his tutor, he had succeeded in escaping 
from the savage pummelling which his sister, Beatrice, 
aged fourteen, was inflicting with a close attention to 
the most vulnerable spots and a disregard for the 
recognised rules of warfare. 

The girl, with a sudden twist of her shoulders, 
extricated herself from the speaker’s grasp, and stood 
confronting him, her still smouldering rage changing 
to resentment against his interference. She was a 
lanky, overgrown child, with a mop of fair hair which 
at the moment tumbled about her face and shoulders 
in unlovely disorder; unlovely too was the expression 
of anger which distorted her features. She was, 
nevertheless, undeniably pretty — the type of girl who 
develops into beautiful and graceful womanhood. 

The young man who had separated the belligerents. 


10 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


and who now waited — vainly, it would seem from 
the girl’s sullen silence — for an explanation of the 
quarrel, surveyed her with the perplexed, reflective 
scrutiny of a person who feels by no means confident 
of the powers which his position of tutor conferred. 
He had been aware for some time of the steady 
growth of certain feminine qualities in his girl pupil 
which made for the undermining of his authority. 
She needed the discipline of a woman, or at least of 
a man considerably older than himself; the latent 
womanhood in her rebelled against his control. The 
decrease in his authority was due to no fault of either; 
it was, he recognised, the inevitable result of circum- 
stances. 

“What,” he repeated in the half-hearted manner 
of one who realises his inadequacy to cope with the 
situation, “were you thrashing him for?” 

The girl threw up her small head proudly, while an 
increase of angry colour showed in her cheeks. His 
persistence annoyed her. The chastisement of Charlie 
had resulted from some ill-considered remark which 
he had hurled at her in disparagement of her sex. The 
insult rankled; and, being still in a state of rebellion, 
she was unmindful to submit to masculine interfer- 
ence. She had vindicated the honour of her sex in 
chastising her brother. It occasioned her a very un- 
feminine thrill of satisfaction to know that she had 
drawn blood and received very little hurt herself. She 
looked mutinous when Earlton repeated his question, 
and answered him bluntly. 

“I don’t see that it is any business of yours,” she 
said. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


11 


On reflection he was not sure that it was any busi- 
ness of his; but he could not let it pass at that. Some- 
thing in the girl’s defiant mien, in the hostility in the 
young eyes, incensed him. It ran through his mind 
that he would like to shake her. He placed a hand 
on her shoulder, not with any intention of putting this 
desire into practice, but in order to ensure her atten- 
tion. 

“Don’t be rude,” he said, “or I shall be compelled 
to award you some punishment. I insist on an answer 
to my question.” 

She smiled, a cool, exasperating smile that proved 
beyond the shadow of a doubt how illusionary his 
authority was. The threat of punishment was an 
empty threat, and they both knew it. Beatrice had 
had punishments set her often, but he could not re- 
member these ever being faithfully performed. She 
attempted, with another abrupt jerk of her shoulders, 
to shake off the restraining hand. During the contest 
between opposing wills the last remnant of authority 
fell away, leaving Earlton denuded of that essential 
quality and of his dignity through an act of indiscre- 
tion that amazed and horrified him as soon as he real- 
ised what he had done. It was never quite clear to 
him how it happened ; and only when he felt his face 
smarting painfully from the effects of the well-merited 
reproof he received from the strong young hand did 
he realise the enormity of his conduct. What idiotic 
impulse had moved him to kiss her? 

The girl relieved the awkwardness of the situation 
by immediately quitting the room; and, recovering 
abruptly from his surprise, he regarded the well-de- 


12 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


fined imprint of her fingers in the over-mantle, and 
stroked his face reflectively while he revolved this un- 
pleasant matter in his mind. 

“The devil!” he mused, and meeting the reflection 
of his own self-conscious eyes, had the grace to look 
ashamed. “The devil!” he repeated, with greater em- 
phasis. And then — “Damn !” 

The experiment of educating a girl on the same lines 
as a boy was, according to his experience, a mistake. 

Earlton, being by instinct more of a gentleman than 
his conduct would seem to warrant, tendered his resig- 
nation forthwith, with a full confession, to the father 
of his pupils, who, a man of peculiar ideas and odd 
whims, was experimenting according to certain the- 
ories of his own in the upbringing of his three mother- 
less children. 

The elder boy was then at Sandhurst; the younger 
was being tutored with his sister by the son of an 
Oxford professor, and a friend of his own. The edu- 
cation of the girl was to be similar in every respect 
to the education of her brother. The differences be- 
tween the sexes, besides the unalterable physical dis- 
similarities, was not, in Mr. Ashleigh’s opinion, a 
fundamental difference in the mentality of the sexes, 
but was due to the undevelopment of feminine brain- 
power. It was his intention to give his daughter every 
facility and encouragement for the cultivation of her 
intelligence; and it gave him immense satisfaction to 
observe that, though far from studious, the quality of 
her mind was above the average; and the logical de- 
ductions of her reasoning powers afforded him keen 
delight. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


13 


His reason for having his children educated as far 
as possible under his direct supervision was the result 
of his rooted objection to any religious instruction. 
He was himself an atheist; but he had no intention 
to direct their minds towards his way of thinking, or 
of allowing others this privilege in the matter of direc- 
tion. He wished them to attain to an age when they 
would be capable of receiving without prejudice the 
different theological views, and of forming an inde-* 
pendent opinion on the subject of the eternal verities, 
without having had their minds moulded for them by 
the orthodox teaching of an effete superstition. ’ He 
had told Earlton this. It had been the one point on 
which they had disagreed ; but Earlton had been over- 
ruled. It was this point which, more than the young 
man’s shamed confession, weighed with him when 
Earlton offered to resign his post. Plainly, after what 
had happened, he could not continue to instruct Bea- 
trice. But Beatrice was old enough, and sufficiently 
intelligent, to grapple with new impressions. He was 
not afraid for her any longer. She should go to col- 
lege at the beginning of the new term. In the mean- 
while Earlton could take a holiday with Charlie, and 
continue as the boy’s tutor for a further period. 

Beatrice Ashleigh, therefore, to her complete satis- 
faction, was sent to college, where life developed for 
her on altogether new lines, unfolding a store of un- 
suspected feminine traditions and ideas which she as- 
similated reluctantly, with a growing realisation of the 
circumscribed area of woman’s world, and the strictly 
confined limitation of woman’s ambition. These things 
were new to her, and she chafed under them. But 


14 


BEATKICE ASHLEIGH 


the tide of custom runs very strong; it must be a pow- 
erful swimmer who stems it. 

One result of the new system betrayed itself sur- 
prisingly after the second year of college. She ap- 
proached her father during the vacation on the subject 
of confirmation. She had discussed religious matters 
with him frequently and freely, and had listened to his 
views on the subject with attentive interest. On the 
present occasion she did not enter into any discussion, 
but simply stated her wish. 

“I want to be confirmed,” she said. 

If Mr. Ashleigh was disappointed he did not show 
it. He had always encouraged in her a perfect free- 
dom of expression in regard to her views on different 
matters; and he endeavoured as far as a somewhat 
cold nature permitted to gain and deserve her confi- 
dence. He looked up at her from the chair in which 
he sat reading and met the diffident eyes fully. They 
were, despite the diffidence, quite steady and deter- 
mined. 

“You haven’t been baptized yet,” he answered, in 
his unemotional way. 

She had expected strong opposition; therefore his 
manner of receiving her request took her somewhat 
aback. 

“I know,” she said. “I want to be baptized as well.” 

“All right,” he replied. “You are rather big for 
that sort of tomfoolery; but, since you wish it, I have 
no objection.” 

And so Beatrice was baptized, and subsequently con- 
firmed, in the Christian faith; and no one, herself 
least of all, suspected that this newly awakened re- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


15 


ligious ardour was directly due to an infatuation for 
an anaemic-looking curate ; though the realisation 
came to her later with a sense of shame for her weak- 
ness, and later still with a certain tolerant amusement 
at the natural absurdity of the thing. Beatrice, for 
all her father’s tutoring, was ever the essentially femi- 
nine. 

At nineteen she left college, and became her father’s 
close companion and controller of the household. Mr. 
Ashleigh had hoped that she would qualify for one 
of the few professions slowly opening to women; but 
Beatrice showed no desire to take up a particular work. 
She had no aptitude for study ; though she read a great 
deal as her wayward fancy dictated. She followed the 
interest of the moment; to specialise was impossible; 
her interests were vagrant and diverse, and were gov- 
erned largely by a vivid imaginativeness which ren- 
dered concentration difficult, but added immensely to 
the wonder and beauty of life. At nineteen, with no 
cares nor responsibilities, with an untroubled child- 
hood to look back upon, and a vista of ease-filled years 
ahead, the world is a pleasant place and life wholly 
desirable. 

It remained so for Beatrice Ashleigh until at the 
age of twenty she fell in love. The process of falling 
in love is an agreeable form of relaxation with many 
girls. They tumble in and out of that state with equal 
facility. With Beatrice, however, it was a more seri- 
ous matter. The affair of the anaemic curate had faded 
into a dingy memory; it had been at best a girlish 
conceit, based on his undisguised admiration for her- 
self. Since leaving college she had come in contact 


16 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


with many men, and was well used to admiration, 
being a young woman of marked personal attractions 
both mental and physical. Masculine homage no 
longer had the power to excite reciprocity ; she accepted 
it as her due, and tendered her favours grudgingly. 

Of all the men who came to the house, friends of 
her brothers for the greater part, only one interested 
her above his fellows. This was a man some years 
older than herself, dark, handsome, rather reckless of 
manner; a soldier by profession, and a friend of Ed- 
ward Ashleigh. Frederick Hurst took very little no- 
tice of Beatrice. He admired her; all men admired 
her; but his interest did not go beyond that. It was 
possibly his indifference, which was a novel experience 
for Beatrice, that piqued her curiosity, and led to her 
closer observation ot him, and eventually to the irre- 
sistible, unaccountable desire to force him to notice 
her. She wanted, more than she had ever wanted 
anything in her life, to see his rather sombre face 
lighten at her coming, to have his eye single her out 
from among the crowd; while Hurst, detached, and 
unaware, and preoccupied, appeared wholly uncon- 
scious whether she was present or not. He was ab- 
sorbed in his own affairs at that period in their ac- 
quaintance; and girls, beautiful or otherwise, had no 
place in his thoughts. 

On the occasion of his first bringing his friend to 
the house, Edward Ashleigh was moved to ask his 
sister what she thought of Hurst. His interest in the 
subject was unusual, so was his tone. Beatrice expe- 
rienced surprise. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


17 


“Nothing,” she answered promptly. “He is a man’s 
man, and a bit of a bear.” 

But if that was the sincere expression of her opinion 
at the moment it modified considerably as time went 
on, until, from thinking nothing about him, she came 
to think a great deal more about him than was alto- 
gether good for her peace of mind, or, in view of 
Hurst’s private life at that time, desirable. But, as 
the proverb has it, “Quand on aime c’est le coeur qui 
juge.” Not that Beatrice knew anything of Hurst’s 
private life. It was, so far as she was able to judge^ 
the same as that of any other young man about town. 


II 


A FTER his first visit to the house, Beatrice met 
Frederick Hurst fairly frequently. He was 
present at several social functions which she attended 
under the able chaperonage of the Hon. Mrs. Enfield, 
a woman for whom Mr. Ashleigh entertained a pro- 
found admiration and liking, based on what grounds 
he could not have explained had he been put to it: 
beyond the virtue of a kindly nature, she was a frivo- 
lous, worldly minded woman, with only one idea in 
regard to girls, which was to marry them well. She 
favoured the French theory that love develops after 
marriage if the marriage prove suitable in other re- 
spects. It had not developed in her own case ; but she 
admitted compensations. 

The suitable settlement of Beatrice was her chief 
concern after the settlement of her own daughter. 
The business of arranging the lives of two well-fa- 
voured girls occupied her fully and agreeably. It 
never entered her thoughts that either could disappoint 
her by arranging her life independently; and in the 
case of her own daughter she had no reason for ap- 
prehension. Elbe was entirely amenable to the ma- 
ternal guidance, being lazy and unemotional, and pre- 
ferring the easy path in life. Since she was pretty 
and popular, particularly with middle-aged men, Mrs. 
18 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


19 


Enfield felt no anxiety on her account. She had 
already settled in her own mind on the man she de- 
sired for her future son-in-law; and it was a high 
tribute to her determination that eventually she se- 
cured him, in view of the fact that marriage was a 
condition he had not considered, and had little in- 
clination towards. 

Ellie had been at college with Beatrice, and was 
her particular chum. She was also a chum of Charlie 
Ashleigh. The latter, who was studying for the In- 
dian Civil Service, and whose prospects were at best 
doubtful, entertained a hopeless attachment for her — 
hopeless because, though Ellie liked him, and though 
Mrs. Enfield was really fond of him, he knew very 
well that the latter would never sanction an engage- 
ment between him and her daughter. Mrs. Enfield 
refused to take Charlie seriously. No one took Charlie 
seriously; since he did not take himself seriously, this 
was not surprising. In any case, he could not have 
provided for a wife ; he could not at that stage provide 
for himself. 

Mr. Ashleigh was well satisfied to leave his daugh- 
ter in Mrs. Enfield’s capable charge. He was some- 
thing of a recluse himself. Though no one suspected 
him of delicacy, he was far from being a strong man. 
He had had a seizure some years previously, and it 
had made him nervous about himself. He was there- 
fore grateful to Mrs. Enfield for taking up Beatrice; 
and he encouraged his daughter to regard Mrs. En- 
field’s house as a second home. He wanted Beatrice 
to enjoy life, to make the most of her youth and her 
beauty. He supposed that eventually she would 


20 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


marry; but he did not concern himself on that point. 
If he ever gave the matter thought it was to hope 
that she would marry the right man ; that, in his opin- 
ion, was more important than a brilliant match. He 
wanted her to be happy. He knew Mrs. Enfield’s 
views, because she had unfolded them to him. 

“With Beatrice’s face,” she told him, “she should 
make a great marriage. Girls with wit and beauty 
are scarce. You mustn’t encourage an indifference to 
ambition. She is too young to realise the importance 
of these things.” 

“Dear lady, I place her in your hands,” he had an- 
swered. “But Beatrice will go her own way. She 
always has done so.” 

And Beatrice was pursuing her own way, unsus- 
pected by Mrs. Enfield. It was not the road of ambi- 
tion she followed; it was not either a happy road; 
there were many rebuffs to be encountered along the 
difficult path Had Hurst been readier of response, 
Mrs. Enfield must inevitably have discovered Bea- 
trice’s secret; but Beatrice was too proud to show her 
preference for a man who displayed not the slightest 
interest in herself. She seemed rather to avoid him; 
and it was this avoidance which, as he grew to know 
her better, led Hurst first to seek her out as a relief 
from the readier welcome of other women. He found 
her society restful. She never seemed to resent it 
when he sat beside her in silence; neither made any 
obvious effort to entertain the other. When they came 
upon a long pause it had not the embarrassing effect 
which a conversational cul-de-sac produces usually. 
Frequently these silences ended with a reflective look 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 21 

at one another and a quiet smile which prefaced some 
commonplace remark. Hurst never apologised for 
his dulness; Beatrice would have shown surprise if he 
had. She was glad when these moody fits of his 
brought him to her side, melancholy though his so- 
ciety proved at these times. It was a mute testimony 
to his recognition of her sympathetic understanding 
that he sought her companionship when out of tune 
with the rest of his world. 

Hurst was home from India on sick leave, following 
a severe attack of jungle fever. He hated the life 
out there, he told her, and hoped to get transferred. 
He wasn’t particularly keen on soldiering anyway; it 
was all routine, and nothing doing. A scrap would 
brighten things up ; but the nations were falling asleep 
in sleek complacency, and letting their arms grow 
rusty. He felt that he could better justify his exist- 
ence in some profession in which he wasn’t a cipher. 

“Not that it’s particularly worth justifying,” he 
added. “One wonders sometimes what one is born 
for. One is launched upon life irrespective of one’s 
wishes. If I’d been given a choice I’m pretty certain 
I wouldn’t be here. Would you?” he asked, meeting 
her smiling eyes fully with a morose curiosity in his 
own. 

“Yes, I think I would have adventured that far,” 
she answered. “I’m interested in life.” 

“Are you? It bores me. That’s why I’m such a 
failure, I suppose, socially. A man who can’t interest 
himself must be fairly poor company, that’s certain. 
It’s awfully good of you to listen to my grousing so 
patiently. Why do you?” 


22 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Again he turned his face towards her and regarded 
her with increased interest, and with a closer scrutiny, 
a scrutiny that took in every detail of the fair face, 
leaning back against the cushion of the chair, quietly 
observant of him. He noted the amber lights in the 
dark eyes, the pretty curve of the smiling lips, the way 
in which her hair waved low over the temples, and 
the sheen of it where the light caught its bright sur- 
faces ; noted too the quick warm colour in her cheeks, 
and the fair transparency of her skin. She was, he 
decided, and felt surprised that he had not discovered 
it before, very beautiful. 

“I’m wondering,” she said, “how life has hurt you 
to cause you to talk as you do. Don’t think,” she 
added hastily on observing that he changed colour, 
“that I am curious. I’m not. I’m merely trying to 
explain why the grousing doesn’t worry me. Life isn’t 
always kind, I know ; though it has dealt kindly with 
me. I could wish that everyone had so good a time. 
But knocks mould a man’s character.” 

“Do they?” He laughed briefly. “It’s rather an 
ugly mould. I imagine it depends largely on a man’s 
temperament how he takes the knocks. If he’s a good 
footballer he comes up smiling, and never resents a 
kick; if he isn’t, he grouses.” 

“The majority of Englishmen are good footballers,” 
she said. “Aren’t you?” 

“I used to believe so. But I take it I’m rotten bad 
at everything,” he replied. 

Shortly after this talk Hurst called at the house, 
to Beatrice’s pleased surprise. It was the first time 
he had visited there independently. When Edward 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


23 


Ashleigh had been in town for a few days he had 
come once or twice in his company, but he had not 
called formally. He was shy, and at first obviously 
ill at ease. His manner conveyed the impression that 
he regretted having yielded to this social impulse and 
wasted a fine afternoon. 

It was unfortunate that on this same afternoon 
other callers dropped in — a succession of them. They 
were mostly young people. Charlie had turned up for 
tea with Earlton, whom he had met casually and in- 
vited to return with him ; and Elbe Enfield was there, 
flirting in a corner with her faithful admirer. Bea- 
trice had not seen Earlton since the days when she had 
been his pupil. The memory of the unfortunate epi- 
sode which had terminated his tutorship was in the 
minds of both when they shook hands. A reminiscent 
smile shone in Beatrice’s eyes, in his was open ad- 
miration. 

“Eve always hoped we should meet again,” she said. 
“It’s ages ago — over six years — since I plagued your 
patience beyond endurance. Do you remember what 
a virago I was at fourteen?” 

“I remember you as a very interesting pupil,” he 
replied guardedly. 

She laughed a little at that, and the laugh set him 
entirely at his ease. She remembered — he saw that 
— and the memory did not affront her. 

“You were sometimes aggressive,” he ventured. 
“But you were a good sportsman.” 

“I was sorry afterwards,” she said ; and vague and 
irrelevant though the remark sounded, he apprehended 
her meaning. “It wasn’t such fun at college as I ex- 


24 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


pected. None of us seemed quite sincere. We posed. 
I wonder ... I suppose that’s life, in a sense. We 
affected ideals . . . borrowed what we admired in 
other people, and lost sight of our individuality.” 

“That’s a fault of the public school system,” he 
said — “to reflect rather than shine independently. But 
I think you have managed to retain something of your 
individuality. I catch glimpses.” 

“A remnant, perhaps,” she allowed, and looked 
pleased. “Anyway, I expect the discipline was good 
for me. That was the part I liked least.” 

He seemed amused at this admission, and regarded 
her with greater attentiveness. 

“That’s where you always bested me,” he said. 
“Your sex generally contrives to set masculine au- 
thority at naught.” 

“You don’t all recognise that,” she retorted. 

“We don’t always allow it,” he corrected. “To 
affect not to see the weak spots is to strengthen one’s 
position.” 

“Another form of posing,” she said, smiling. 

“I am glad you don’t despise sincerity,” he said. 
“Quite recently I heard truth described; as bourgeois. 
It was insisted that one could only be truthful at the 
sacrifice of tact.” 

“I should not have supposed that tact and insin- 
cerity were synonymous terms,” Beatrice said. 

“No,” he answered. “The most tactful people I 
have happened across have been entirely honest. But 
the dishonest person seldom scruples to apply an en- 
gaging term as a euphony for a degenerate quality. 
A man told me the other day that I was growing bald. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


25 


I consider that unnecessarily tactless; but I am per- 
suaded that it was an honest expression of his opinion. 
A consultation with my giass corroborated the state- 
ment. All truth-tellers are not therefore diplomatic.” 

“Luxuriance in hair is apt to rob the brain of its 
nourishment,” Beatrice remarked consolingly. 

“Ah!” he said, and smoothed the back of his hair 
reflectively. “You prove to me that tact and sincerity 
are inseparable.” 

It was at this moment that Beatrice became aware 
of Hurst's entrance. She turned as the door opened, 
smiling, some light response to Earlton’s remark on 
her lips. The smile widened and spread to her eyes 
on perceiving who the newcomer was, and a faint in- 
crease of colour showed in her cheeks. 

Earlton turned also, in some curiosity to discover 
who was responsible for the abrupt detachment of in- 
terest from himself which he was sensible of in Bea- 
trice’s manner, and for the swift, glad look of welcome 
he detected in her eyes. His glance following hers, 
he saw standing in the doorway a man of good phy- 
sique, dark, almost swarthy of complexion, with a 
resolute, handsome face, and good eyes — eyes that 
were sombre and somewhat furtive in expression, as 
though they reflected the embarrassment which gripped 
Hurst when the door opened upon this unexpected 
gathering of people, and he came forward reluctantly 
to the accompaniment of talk and laughter, which 
hung for a space at his appearance, and went on 
again after the momentary check in cheerful disregard 
of the interruption. 

“I didn’t know you had a party on,” he said to 


26 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Beatrice in an aggrieved voice, rather as though he 
considered she had got these people together for the 
purpose of vexing him, as though she ought to have 
been better prepared for his coming, even though she 
had not known of it beforehand. 

“I haven’t,” she answered brightly. “These are all 
chance callers. You must outstay them. Come over 
to the table and have some tea.” 

He followed her, and stood beside her when she 
gave him his cup, and held it in his hand. 

“I’m an awful duffer at this kind of thing,” he 
said. “I hoped I should find you alone. But I sup- 
pose you aren’t alone very often.” 

“Try again some other day and you will find your 
surmise wrong. My father and I generally have tea 
alone — when I’m in,” she added. “But I’m awfully 
glad you came to-day.” 

“I’m beginning to be glad too,” he said, meeting 
her eyes and smiling. 

It passed through his mind to wonder what there 
was in this girl which set him so quickly at his ease, 
and made him pleased to be with her. She did not 
resemble her brother in the least, and yet some quality 
common to both, that quality which had caused him 
to chum readily with Edward Ashleigh, appealed to 
him equally in her. He could not give it a name. It 
was something instinctive to which his own nature 
responded. If she had been a man he would have 
wanted to chum with her. 

It was surprising in consideration of the frag- 
mentary nature of their intercourse how intimate they 
were becoming; almost from the first they had adopted 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


27 


the conversational freedom of accepted friendship. He 
felt, without understanding why, grateful to her. 
Girls as a rule did not interest him ; she had not inter- 
ested him at one time. He retained a hazy remem- 
brance of having experienced impatience when com- 
pelled to entertain her in those early days of their 
acquaintance; it had been only when he grasped that 
she did not require to be entertained, that she was, 
even when silent, intensely companionable and sym- 
pathetic, that he had begun to take any pleasure in 
her society. He had believed that only married or 
middle-aged women could be so unaffectedly agree- 
able. The majority of girls wanted to be amused, 
were obviously athirst for compliments. The effort 
to talk down to the frivolous level of feminine intelli- 
gence had always bored him. He recognised no sen- 
sible reason for it. That his own sex was responsible 
for this state of things never occurred to him. Girls 
adapt themselves with extraordinary ease to the role 
which seems to be expected of them. Beatrice, repre- 
senting the more evolved type of woman, appealed to 
Hurst strongly. He did not realise why she appealed 
to him; he only knew that apart from admiring her 
he enjoyed being with her. 

“I’ve thought a lot about you/’ he said unexpectedly, 
“since our talk the other night. . . . But I expect 
you’ve forgotten all that.” 

“I’ve a better memory than you give me credit 
for,” she answered. 

“I talked a lot of rot,” he said, glancing at her 
swiftly to mark the effect of his words. “I’m sure I 


28 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


must have bored you. I came to-day in the hope of 
effacing a bad impression, and I’m afraid I’ve begun 
by creating fresh ones. It suggests a kink in the na- 
ture of a man when he doesn’t love his kind.” 

“It suggests to me rather a mistaken belief,” she 
replied. “You don’t allow yourself to find out whether 
you love it or no.” 

He looked her straight in the eyes. 

“Please introduce me to the most lovable person 
beside yourself in the room,” he said, “and I will ex- 
periment.” 

She conducted him forthwith to the corner where 
Elbe Enfield sat with Charlie, and, to the latter’s 
amazed indignation, claimed his help in dispensing 
tea. 

“They’ve all had tea,” he expostulated, as he fol- 
lowed her across the room. “It isn’t playing the 
game, Bee. I suppose it’s attributable to your gender 
that you can’t see another girl enjoying herself with- 
out wanting to spoil sport.” 

“Was Ellie enjoying herself?” she asked innocently. 

Charlie grinned. 

“She would rather talk to me than to that fellow 
anyway,” he said confidently. “I was proposing to 
her at the moment of your inopportune arrival ” 

“Proposing!” Beatrice scoffed. “You! I wonder 
how many times you have asked her to marry you ?” 

“If you weren’t so fond of jumping in on an un- 
finished sentence you would have realised that my pro- 
posal had nothing to do with matrimony,” he returned 
airily. “Your insistence on a single application of a 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


29 


term which has a wide significance is distinctly femi- 
nine. I was proposing that she should invite me to 
lunch with them to-morrow. I’ll have to return to her 
presently for her answer.” 


Ill 


' | 'HE oddest thing in life, perhaps the most inex- 
plicable and unaccountable, certainly the most 
irrelevant, is the emotion which is described as pas- 
sionate love. Some people affect to disapprove of the 
word passion ; but love without passion, however 
beautiful in itself, is a sexless quality, a quality which 
in essence is nothing beyond itself, which leads no- 
where. Without passion the world might very well 
come to a finish, and plainly that is inconsistent with 
the scheme of creation. 

It is impossible to state precisely what constitutes 
the attraction between two persons meeting casually, 
as dozens of persons meet without feeling any special 
interest in one another. Suddenly from out the crowd 
one person stands forth in the eyes of another, and 
the rest form into a background, an unimportant but 
essential setting, throwing into stronger relief the vital 
characteristics of the principal. The person who has 
once taken the centre of the stage can never again 
merge with the crowd. 

For Beatrice, Frederick Hurst stood out from the 
rest, a significant, dominant figure — a figure which 
filled the spaces in her orderly mind and directed all 
her waking thoughts towards itself. There was cre- 
ated in her a restless longing for his presence, which 
their brief meetings left unsatisfied. What she found 
30 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


31 


in Hurst to attract her so intensely she never at- 
tempted to explain — could not have explained had she 
tried to ; but she had no doubt at all in her mind that 
she wanted him, wanted to marry him, — to give her- 
self to him, all that was best in herself, — to have him 
beside her always in the intimate satisfying relations 
of ordinary daily life. But, though it was plain to 
her that Hurst was beginning to care for her, she was 
vaguely conscious of a growing reluctance on his part 
towards yielding to this attraction. He was fighting 
against the domination of an overmastering passion, 
fighting half-heartedly, avoiding temptation one day 
with inflexible determination, and the next capitulating 
feebly, putting himself voluntarily in the way of temp- 
tation once more. 

Matters reached a climax during the summer. 
Hurst made one of a house-boat party, got together 
for the Henley week. He had known beforehand that 
Beatrice was to be among the guests, and he had seri- 
ously debated the question of joining the party, had 
decided at first not to do so, and then in a reckless 
moment had flung aside every consideration but one, 
and had yielded to that — an unconquerable desire to 
meet her again. 

It was a small party, mainly on account of the lim- 
ited accommodation ; and the hostess had selected her 
guests with the same regard for harmony which Noah 
displayed in preparation for his lengthy voyage. She 
had also hired a number of small boats, and these 
were moored to the Stella's stern, and ran parallel 
with the bank in an inviting string for the use of 
the Stella's passengers, who, following the rule of 


32 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Hobson’s choice, took each his boat in succession with 
a disregard for preference, and rowed away with the 
day’s companion. 

Hurst usually contrived — and since she aided him 
in this, it was not a difficult matter — to secure Beatrice 
for his partner. At his suggestion she rose earlier 
than the other women, and was out rowing with him 
every morning at six. Tanned with the sun and the 
summer wind, and flushed with exertion, for she in- 
sisted generally on using the oars, aglow with simple 
enjoyment of the present, Beatrice was far lovelier 
in Hurst’s eyes than she had appeared in London amid 
the more artificial surroundings in which he had 
known her hitherto. Reclining at his ease in the stern, 
with the ropes held loosely in his hands, he watched 
the glad young face and noted its unconscious happi- 
ness, noted the quiet content in her eyes as they met 
his — the ready, responsive smile. And while he 
watched her he reflected, with rage in his heart, and 
a quick, shamed disgust at himself, on a certain ugly 
episode in his life, too recent to be relegated to the 
background — a sordid story of fascination and grati- 
fied vanity, and a weak succumbing to impulses that 
were not even dominating. 

Why, he wondered with a savage sense of impo- 
tence, had he been such an egregious fool as to take 
Edward Ashleigh into his confidence? He had made 
a muddle of things; there was no doubt about that. 
And he was adding to the muddle. He was falling 
in love — blind, passionate love. It was the real thing, 
this: it wasn’t merely admiration for a beautiful face; 
it was something finer than that — something that 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


33 


stirred and touched him, and made him desire to be 
worthier of this girl’s unquestioning trust; made him 
profoundly ashamed of what had formerly appeared 
to him as rather a creditable adventure, an intrigue 
with a quality of dash and knight-errantry about it 
which had contributed a sense of splendid daring to 
an otherwise sordid affair. He hated it now — hated 
the memory of it. Always when he looked into 
Beatrice’s eyes the memory returned and haunted him. 
This morning, while he sat watching her, with the sun- 
light bathing her warmly and playing tantalisingly in 
her eyes, it seemed to him that another pair of eyes 
were reflected in hers, and stared back at him in mock- 
ing derision. On the pretext of consulting his watch, 
he averted his gaze abruptly, and, seeing the time, sat 
up straighten 

“We shall be late for breakfast,” he said. “You’ll 
have to work.” 

“There will be no breakfast for either of us if you 
go to sleep over the steering,” she returned, bending 
to the sculls. “We nearly stuck on that sandbank.” 

“I shouldn’t mind if we stuck there all day,” he an- 
swered. “If you disparage my navigation I’ll make 
for the first sandbank that offers, and fix her firmly 
in the mud.” 

“Steer for a good-looking one, then, where we can 
lie among the bulrushes and muse.” 

“That’s rather a pretty idea,” he said. . . . “It only 
needs the moonlight to be perfect. What would it 
suggest to you? — all among the rushes, eh?’’ 

“Moses,” she answered promptly. 

“Moses!” he repeated in disgust. 


34 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


“Yes. I thought everyone knew about him, and his 
early association with bulrushes. I suppose it would 
suggest to you only ham and eggs deferred? I’m not 
so prosaic.” 

“No,” he retorted. “You are so abnormally senti- 
mental that the average man might hesitate to venture 
among bulrushes with you.” 

She laughed softly. 

“You can get a chaperon to-morrow, if you feel un- 
easy,” she said. 

Abruptly Hurst leaned towards her, a swift unac- 
countable gleam in his eyes, the blood showing dully 
beneath the bronze of his skin where it mounted to 
his temples. The emotion that gripped him was suffi- 
ciently powerful to render him indifferent to appear- 
ances; he was so intent upon her that he lost sight of 
the fact that, even at that hour, they had not the river 
to themselves. The faintly surprised inquiry in Bea- 
trice’s eyes acted as a check. 

“Look here!” he said. “There’s a moon to-night. 

. . . Will you come with me? — there’s a little spot 
we passed up one of the reaches. There are bulrushes, 
and the willows hang over the water, and . . . Will 
you come — after dinner?” 

She rowed for a moment in silence and avoided 
the gaze of his eager eyes. A strange shyness held 
her. She wanted to agree to his proposal, wanted 
to stroll beneath the willows with him in the moon- 
light ; but a certain new quality in his voice and man- 
ner startled her; she felt, and was at a loss to under- 
stand why she should feel it, a little afraid of him. 

“You aren’t going to refuse?” he said, watching 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


35 


her closely, reading the indecision in her face, bent on 
overruling any difficulty that seemed to offer to the 
hindrance of his arrangement. 

She looked at him then swiftly, a little flushed and 
uncertain still, but obviously yielding. It was evident 
to her that to refuse to go would disappoint him 
keenly. Instinctively she realised that the adjustment 
of their future relations depended on her present de- 
cision. 

“I’ll go — if we can manage it,” she said doubtfully. 

He smiled confidently. 

‘That will be all right,” he said, and sat back with 
the air of a man who has achieved his purpose and 
is thoroughly contented. 

Having gained her consent, Hurst did not concern 
himself with the difficulty of getting her away from 
the other guests after dinner. He meant to manage 
it somehow. To do so unobserved was impossible. 
In the evenings the Stella's party assembled on deck, 
and each guest was expected to contribute to the enter- 
tainment of the rest. The day being devoted to boat- 
ing, everyone was sufficiently tired after dinner to 
prefer to remain on board ; and the little line of boats 
trailing from the Stella’s stern was seldom requisi- 
tioned after sunset. Therefore that evening when 
Hurst began hauling in one of the boats, his action 
elicited comment. 

“What’s the fellow after?” a man standing beside 
her asked Beatrice. 

Beatrice was leaning with her elbows on the rail, 
looking down at the mirrored reflection of starlit sky 
in the river beneath. The question, seeming to her 


36 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


to suggest that the speaker somehow connected Hurst’s 
occupation with herself, caused her some embarrass- 
ment. She looked round slowly, and, with her gaze 
on the tall figure in the boat, answered : 

“We are going for a pull. There are parts of the 
river we have a fancy to see by moonlight.” 

“Oh!” he said, and smiled comprehendingly. “I 
should never have suspected Hurst of being poetical.” 

“Why not attribute the poetry to me? There is 
nothing which appeals to me more powerfully than the 
effect of moonlight on water.” 

“You get that from here,” he said. 

“For that matter,” she replied, “one can get it in 
a puddle, or a bucket of water even. I’m in search 
of contrasts. There are reaches — unsuspected back- 
waters, and tiny creeks, where the moonlight filters 
through the trees and shows between the rushes, leav- 
ing patches of unrelieved blackness. I haven’t seen it. 
I am going to see it to-night. I know it is all as I 
picture it. One finds those shadowed places on the 
brightest days.” 

“I’d enjoy the sound of that better,” he remarked, 
“if it were myself you were proposing to go with. 
There is a quality in moonlight that is heady. You’ve 
been imbibing it.” 

She laughed. 

“Ah! my head will stand the test all right,” she 
answered; “it’s entirely well balanced.” 

They moved aft as Hurst brought the boat along- 
side. Her companion helped her step into it, and 
remained looking down on them while Beatrice seated 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


37 


herself in the stern, and Hurst shipped the sculls and 
pushed off. 

“I don’t call it altogether fair, old man,” he called 
to Hurst reproachfully. “You are robbing the com- 
pany of its chief vocalist. Selfishness is detestable.” 

“You have a chance of practising an opposite vir- 
tue,” Hurst retorted, and pulled away from the Stella 
with long, swinging strokes. 

“The best-looking girl on board,” the other mur- 
mured complainingly, and turned to face his hostess, 
who joined him and stood watching with him the little 
boat gliding swiftly away over the moonlit waters, the 
lantern at her bows swinging gaily and reflecting 
warmly on the ripples which the boat made in her 
passage. 

“I hate monopolists,” he said. 

“In that case,” she returned soothingly, “you don’t 
envy either of them; they’re both monopolists.” 

“Oh ! as for that,” he replied, “I daresay Miss Ash 
leigh would be agreeable to an exchange of escort.” 

“I confess I haven’t detected any dissatisfaction on 
her part with the present escort,” she said. “I don’t 
think I ever saw two people more unaffectedly pleased 
with one another. Don’t you like to see people enjoy- 
ing themselves?” 

“Yes,” he answered — “when I happen to be of the 
number.” 

“And aren’t you?” she asked. 

He smiled engagingly. 

“Under existing conditions, yes,” he replied, and 
turned and walked with her along the lighted deck. 

“It wasn’t so difficult to manage, you see,” Hurst 


38 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


said when, well away from the Stella , he slackened the 
pace on the boat, and, pulling a leisurely stroke, found 
time to study the dim outline of his companion’s face, 
and the sheen of the moonlight on the bright, un- 
covered hair. 

“No,” she answered, feeling pleased and shy to- 
gether at the novelty of this moonlight row, with its 
suggestion of intimacy and separation from the world, 
its adventurous flavour of flitting and evasion that 
added the distinctive touch of the unusual and the 
romantic, and so made this row unlike any other they 
had enjoyed together, surpassing these altogether in 
the matter of pleasurable excitement. 

“Confess, now, you are glad you came?” he said. 

She smiled back at him, resting comfortably among 
the cushions, feeling so entirely happy that she could 
not disguise the note of complete satisfaction in her 
voice. 

“It’s the best time of all for the river,” she replied. 
“I never knew that anything could be half so good 
as this.” 

“You wait,” he said, “until we get away from these 
other boats. I know a spot. . . . We’ll have it to 
ourselves . . .” 

“With bulrushes?” she asked. 

“Bulrushes, yes,” he answered — “and solitude . . . 
no sound to disturb the silence, save the music of the 
wind, and the sweep of the tide among the reeds . . 


IV 


OW,” said Hurst, as the little boat nosed her 

^ way between the tall reeds fringing the bank 
where the willows grew densely and overhung the 
water, “how’s this? Does it suggest Moses to you 
here?” 

Beatrice sat forward, one elbow resting on her knee, 
her chin supported in her hand, surveying the scene 
with dreamy eyes that noted the quiet beauty of the 
shadowed water on which patches of moonlight re- 
flected whitely through the massed foliage of the trees. 
The only sounds which broke the stillness were the 
soft rustle of the leaves as the night breeze stirred 
them in its passage, and the lazy push of the river 
among the reeds. 

“Yes,” she said, and was silent a moment. “It takes 
me right back,” she added presently, “to those bygone 
ages. I see the moon shining on the Nile and the 
Red Sea, and dark-eyed Israelite women coming down 
to the water ” 

“To hide their kids among the bulrushes,” he put 
in flippantly. 

“Ah!” she said. “Don’t spoil it. It’s too good for 
jesting. Listen!” 

She held up a hand for silence, while softly across 
the water floated the sound of a guitar, played by 
an unseen hand far off, and growing ever fainter as 


39 


40 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


the player was borne onward, away from this quiet 
retreat which the sweep of the willows hid. 

“With a stretch of the imagination,” Hurst said, 
“one might add to your picture the suggestive touch 
of the timbrel. I prefer my music.” 

“Your music?” she said. 

“Yes . . . the low song of the tide in its reluc- 
tant turning, and the careless rustling of the summer 
wind. Do you hear it? . . . just a protesting mur- 
mur ... an echo?” 

“Many echoes,” she breathed softly, and leaned over 
the side of the boat and looked long at the moving 
water. 

“Many echoes,” he repeated, with an inflection in 
his tones that sounded a note of regret — “but few 
voices.” 

She turned her face deliberately towards him, a 
grave intentness in her eyes. 

“That’s a quotation?” she said. “I seem to 
know it.” 

“Who doesn’t?” he returned. “It’s Goethe’s : 'There 
are many echoes, but few voices.’ And the majority 
of us spend our lives in listening to the echoes.” 

Beatrice stirred restlessly. It was strange how his 
words gripped her. His earnest mood, so unusual 
with him that it seemed to reveal an altogether new 
and unsuspected quality in this man who had appeared 
to her as somewhat insincere heretofore, appealed to 
a corresponding earnestness in herself, called forth a 
swift, responsive sympathy. She realised instinctively 
that he classed himself with the majority, that he 
knew himself to have disregarded the voices, to have 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


41 


been satisfied with the echoes, to be one of those for 
whom the voices do not speak. It troubled her that 
this should be, that he should be content to have it so. 

“I want to hear the voices,” she said. 

“Yes,” he answered. “Quite possibly you will hear 
them. You are not likely to mistake an echo for the 
real thing.” 

Abruptly he stood up, and, catching at a bough, 
pulled the boat into the bank and sprang ashore. 

“Come,” he said, and held a hand to her and helped 
her to land. “We are going to walk in the moonlight 
— all alone, with nothing to disturb us but the echoes. 
Who cares if the boat drifts away?” 

Nevertheless he made it fast before turning to her 
and offering her his hand again. Unhesitatingly Bea- 
trice put her hand in his, and walked beside him in 
the warm stillness of the summer night. 

“If only this could last!” he said. “That’s a regret 
that somehow gets into everything — spoils everything. 
The pleasant moments are always the fleetest.” 

“I don’t want you to talk like that,” Beatrice said. 
“I want to enjoy this — absolutely. Don’t mar a per- 
fect hour with regrets, Captain Hurst.” 

“Is it a perfect hour — for you?” he asked, turning 
to her quickly. “I scarcely dared to hope . . .” 

Moved by a sudden thought he broke off, and, clasp- 
ing her hand more firmly, said a little abruptly: 

“Look here! Let’s cut the ground a bit, and take 
the short road to intimacy. My name is Fred. May 
I call you Beatrice?” 

“If you wish — yes,” she answered, and felt glad 
that he should suggest the use of Christian names. 


42 


BEATEICE ASHLEIGH 


It seemed, as the clasp of his hand seemed, to draw 
them closer in the charmed solitude of the night, as 
their lingering footsteps trod the grassy path, un- 
heeding where they wandered, so that they were to- 
gether and alone. 

She wondered a little sadly whether this walk meant 
quite as much to Hurst as it meant to her. Always 
it appeared to her that when they advanced some way 
along the pleasant road of friendship, Hurst turned 
deliberately and retraced his steps ever to the start- 
ing-point. Would they, after that night, find them- 
selves back at the first stage again in the morning? 
And then his voice broke in upon her musing and put 
to flight her doubts of him. 

“It’s awfully sweet of you, Beatrice, to be so kind 
to me,” he said, and never had she heard him speak 
before in tones so diffident and grateful. “I’ve been 
an awful rotter. I wonder if you knew what a worth- 
less fool I am whether you’d bother about me? Often 
when I am not with you I resolve never to see you 
again ; and then ... I imagine I never kept a resolve 
that was worth anything. It’s always the impulse of 
the moment, the gratifying of my own pleasure, that 
wins. You are just the sweetest influence that has 
come into my life. ... You are the voice I have 
missed in listening to the echoes. What is to happen 
when one hears a voice too late?” 

“Is it ever too late?” Beatrice asked. 

“I’m afraid so, sometimes,” he said, and was silent. 

Beatrice walked on, her face turned from him, look- 
ing towards the river which lay white and still in the 
moonlight beyond the trees, a broad band of silver 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


43 


under the clear sky. She felt immeasurably troubled, 
perplexed, and uncomprehending; and her heart re- 
belled against his acquiescence in inevitabilities which 
he did not name. 

“I don’t understand,” she said. 

“I don’t wish you to understand,” he answered, and 
added, almost roughly, “What I’ve got, I’ll keep. 
We’ll have this hour anyway. I’m not going to spoil 
it. It was your mention of echoes that set me in this 
direction. Bother the echoes ! Who heeds them ? I’m 
hearing the voice to-night. I’ll hear it always, I ex- 
pect, after this — the voice, and the murmur of the 
river. . . .” 

Presently he said, looking at her half-averted face, 
and speaking gently, as one speaks when conscious of, 
and sorry for, having given needless pain : 

“I’ve vexed you. . . . Forgive me. I’m a blunder- 
ing fool. I talk like a fool at times. Forget what I 
have said.” 

“You ask impossibilities,” she answered quietly. 
“And you are not fair to me. It will be time enough 
for you to tell me things when you can give me your 
full confidence.” 

“Eh?” he said, oddly disconcerted. 

He pulled her to him, and, still keeping his hold 
on her hand, placed his other hand on her shoulder 
and held her firmly. She did not resist. She stood 
quite still beneath his touch and looked steadily into 
his eyes. If he had not guessed it before, he knew 
at that moment that he had only to ask to have. And 
he could not ask — not yet. 

“You expressed the wish to have this hour un- 


44 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


spoilt,” he said. “Let’s keep to that I don’t want to 
discuss gloomy things — it strikes a discordant note. 
I brought you here to enjoy the beauty of the night. 
I wanted you — away from those others. Let us for- 
get everything — everyone — just for this one night, and 
think only of each other. When we are back in the 
world it will be something for me to remember, this.” 

He stooped until his face was close to her own, and 
smiled gravely into her eyes. 

“Seal our compact of friendship,” he pleaded. “I 
so want to kiss your lips.” 

She drew back, startled by this request which, it 
occurred to her, should not have been made at the 
present indefinite stage in their relationship. A touch 
of prudery, born of girlish pride and shyness, caused 
her to shrink from the proffered caress. 

“Don’t !” she said, a little brusquely. “I don’t want 
you to flirt with me.” 

He straightened himself abruptly, and released her, 
stung by her words more than by her refusal of his 
request. Flirting was the last thing in the world to 
have entered his thoughts at the moment. 

“You mistake me,” he said, with some earnestness. 
“No such intention was in my mind. I am sorry to 
have annoyed you. Don’t fear that I shall offend 
again.” 

Beatrice walked on slowly, silently, conscious of 
the strain between them which marred the easy frank- 
ness that had marked their intercourse hitherto, mak- 
ing it so keenly enjoyable to both. She was conscious 
also of a faint regret. Why not have given him the 
kiss he asked for? It was not so great a thing to 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


45 


give when love went with the gift. And yet, was not 
that the reason why she had withheld it? Love hesi- 
tates to surrender to an inadequate return. 

And then she heard him speaking again at her side 
in a tone of forced lightness that grated by reason of 
its insincerity. 

“There isn’t so much in a kiss, after all,” he said, 
and the next moment felt savage with himself for al- 
lowing his irritation to goad him to such a remark. 

He guessed by her continued silence, by the sudden 
quickening of her step, that she was displeased; and 
a strong desire leaped in him to undo the bad impres- 
sion he had created, to come to a better understand- 
ing, to see her turn to him once more with the old kind 
look in her eyes — the shy, sweet smile that made him 
always hunger to kiss the lips that had refused him 
their caress. 

“Beatrice,” he said, speaking jerkily, and with a 
strange hoarseness in his voice that conveyed to her 
listening ears something of the depths of the emotion 
that stirred him, “don’t be angry with me. I need 
your kindness more than you can guess. There are 
things I can’t tell you yet — difficulties. . . . I’ve been 
a fool, and I’m paying for it — paying heavily. Some 
day I’ll tell you. Perhaps you’ll understand, and pity 
me, and be kind. . . . But I want something from you 
now. I’ve grown to care. . . . You must see that I 
care. I ought not to tell you these things : but I can’t 
let you carry away a wrong impression Say that you 
are not angry with me. I’m a blundering idiot. . . . 
But there is one thing I can’t face — the loss of your 
friendship. You won’t take that from me, will you?” 


46 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


He put out a tentative hand. 

“Beatrice,” he said . . . “Beatrice. . . 

She looked at him very intently, not moving, ob- 
viously uncertain what to do. Then she took the hand 
he offered without speaking; and he lifted hers, clasped 
in his own, and touched it with his lips. 

“There is everything in a kiss,” he murmured, smil- 
ing at her while he did so. “You knew that. You 
knew that I would never ask from you something that 
carried no meaning.” 

“Ah!” she said, and smiled back at him, the old 
kind smile. “I wish you would be quite sincere with 
me always. I think I have a right to demand that. I 
don’t ask anything else.” 

He drew her hand through his arm and started to 
walk again. 

“You’re a lover of truth,” he said, assuming a 
lighter manner. “So am I; but it isn’t always prac- 
ticable. You are the honestest person I have ever met. 
I like that in you, although it inclines to hurt at times. 
I’ve a bruise — several, in fact.” 

“You’ll get over them,” she answered. 

She wondered whether he realised how often she 
felt bruised. She was feeling bruised at the moment; 
and the hurt grew instead of lessening. The knowl- 
edge that Hurst was taking all that she had to give, 
that he seemed bent on winning her love, and at the 
same time was anxious to impress her with a sense 
of its hopelessness, wounded her deeply. She could 
not guess even at the nature of the difficulties he spoke 
of; but that they were very real to him she gathered 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


47 


from the bitter way in which he alluded to these vague 
distresses which somehow shadowed his life. 

He had said he cared for her. This was no empty 
phrase. She knew that he cared, as certainly as she 
knew that she loved him, would love him always, even 
though the difficulties which he did not name should 
separate them finally. Whatever the difficulties were, 
though they might influence their actions, they could 
not govern their affections. With no great effort on 
his part he had won her love; once given, it was be- 
yond her power to recall, just as it was beyond her 
comprehension to understand what it was in him she 
loved, what particular quality in him drew her as in- 
evitably as the magnet attracts steel and holds it. It 
was a thing altogether outside her volition and her 
control. 

“After to-morrow,” Hurst said, breaking a long 
silence, “all this will be a memory. Shall you think 
of this night, Beatrice? — of this walk? Will the music 
of the river penetrate your dreams? . . . Don’t an- 
swer. I want to believe that you’ll remember. I shall. 
When I close my eyes I’ll see a picture of it all — the 
silver of the river, and the black shadows of the trees 
across our path — and the moonlight shining on your 
dear face and hair.” 

He looked down into the upturned face, lifted to 
his in the cold white light, and noted the wistful ques- 
tioning, the wonder in the beautiful eyes. 

“You’ll remember?” he said. 

“I shall remember,” she answered — “yes.” 


W HEN later they rowed back to the Stella, Bea- 
trice, as she sat wrapped for the greater part 
of the time in silence, depressed and manifestly tired, 
was conscious of a sense of finality that appeared to 
close all the vistas of life, leaving no outlook. It 
seemed to her that that night they had reached the 
furtherest point in their relationship, that, like ex- 
plorers following a difficult trail, they had touched 
the limit of possibilities so far as these affected them- 
selves, and were forced to retrace their steps, leaving 
the unknown places unexplored for the more fortunate 
to discover. 

The consciousness of failure and disappointment 
oppressed her, and faint stirrings of resentment and 
impatience warred with her love, and set her think- 
ing of Hurst in an altered light — questioning his atti- 
tude, pondering over the unrevealed things in his life 
which thrust so insistently between them. And under- 
lying all was the conviction that he had acted selfishly 
in troubling her peace if the difficulties to which he 
referred so vaguely were too great to be overcome. 

There was a suggestion of weariness in her look 
and manner when, having gained the Stella's side, she 
was assisted on board by the man who had helped her 
into the boat and expostulated at her going. She 
stood for a moment to glance back over her shoulder 
48 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


49 


at Hurst, standing straight and motionless in the boat 
which she had set rocking gently in stepping from it 
on to the little gangway. He was looking after her 
with an earnest intensity in his dark eyes, the set of 
his lips compressed into hard, inflexible lines. 

“Been solving the great problem of life together ?” 
the man at her side asked cynically. 

Beatrice turned to regard him, with a faint up- 
lifting of her brows. 

“What is that?” she inquired. 

“Whether life is worth the living.” 

“Oh !” She emitted a short laugh. “I don’t think 
I ever had any doubts about that.” 

“No ! I have at times — not just at the moment, any- 
how. Does the moon look any different viewed higher 
up?” 

Quickly she repressed a feeling of irritation, and 
answered lightly: 

“You should go and see for yourself. It was alf 
just as I had pictured it — more beautiful, indeed.” 

“Yes! Well, come and sit over here and get my 
view of it; and I’ll undertake to prove to you that it 
is quite as fine from this point. Appreciation depends 
more on circumstances than environment. I admit 
that the circumstances” — he indicated by a gesture the 
little group gathered on the Stella's deck — “are some- 
what over-assertive; but one can turn one’s back on 
that part of it.” 

Beat-ice was not disinclined to turn her back, to 
sit quiet, apart from the rest, lending an inattentive 
ear to her companion’s amiable nonsense. She felt 
relieved, when Hurst came up and joined the others. 


50 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


that she was not among them; she was in no mood 
for social amenities, and she was glad to be spared 
the necessity of having to meet his gaze, of having 
to dissemble before this light-hearted assembly in 
order to disguise the weariness and the despondency 
which her present companion, if he noticed it, good- 
naturedly ignored. 

But to remain outside the circle for long was im- 
possible. Mrs. Pratt Ridgeway, with a view to mak- 
ing the last night on the river a success, organised 
games, and insisted on everyone joining in; so that 
the last impressions Beatrice was to carry away of 
that evening consisted of a confusion of hilarity and 
noise and affected gaiety, before which the regret and 
the heart-hunger shrank into a pained repression, to 
find an outlet later when the careless gaiety ended and 
the hush of night settled upon the river. 

The following morning it rained. When she opened 
her eyes upon the grey mist, Beatrice viewed the fall- 
ing drops with immense relief. She had not intended 
to go boating with Hurst before breakfast; she had 
not told him of her decision; she did not know 
whether, had it been fine, he would have expected her, 
but she felt grateful to the weather for having spared 
her the necessity of seeming to decline to go. She 
did not wish him to suspect how deeply she was hurt. 

They met at breakfast with an affectation of care- 
less friendliness, and exchanged insincere regrets on 
the unfavourable conditions of the weather. 

“Rotten luck,” Hurst said, “to have the last morn- 
ing spoilt by weeping skies. It might have held up a 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


51 


few hours longer. I turned out at the usual hour, 
although I saw it was hopeless. ,, 

“It isn’t fair to grumble,” she answered. “The 
weather has been ideal on the whole.” 

“Yes,” he agreed. He regarded her for a moment 
attentively. “You are going home with a most glor- 
ious tan. The sun has kissed you.” 

“I've a freckle on my nose,” she returned, smiling. 
“That rather distresses me.” 

He examined the blemish critically. 

“I like it,” he asserted, and looked her in the eyes, 
hesitated, and then laughed with a faint constraint. 
“It’s a souvenir,” he said. “And it will fade away 
with the memory of this week. Where are you going 
after this?” 

“Into Cornwall,” she answered — “Fowey — with 
my father. It won’t be exactly festive. He fishes all 
day, and I bait the lines. It is an unemotional form 
of amusement which suits us both, however. I am 
only unhappy when he catches fish. He doesn’t do it 
often.” 

“Well,” said Hurst, and paused reflectively, “Corn- 
wall isn’t so very far . . .” 

He was looking at her, and he caught the gleam 
of hope that shone in her eyes, and broke off a little 
abruptly, leaving his sentence uncompleted. 

That was the last he saw of her alone, save for 
a minute or so at the station, where he saw her off 
with other members of the party who were going back 
by train. And those last few minutes were marred 
by a strange awkwardness on his part, which mani- 
fested itself chiefly in a too obvious attempt to appear 


52 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


unconcerned, and to ignore the intimacy of the past 
few days. 

Beatrice took her seat in the train with a feeling of 
relief. She was glad when it moved out of the station, 
and the dark, handsome, reckless face which she loved 
too well, vanished with the other faces on the plat- 
form and was lost in the drizzle and the mist as she 
was borne rapidly away. She did not move from her 
corner, did not get up for a last look from the window ; 
and Hurst, who waited in the expectation of catching 
a final glimpse of her, turned when the train vanished 
and walked away disappointed. The greyness of the 
day hung like a blight over everything: nothing of 
the glow and the glamour of the past week remained 
— only the grey and the chill of the rain-veiled land- 
scape, and the dull patter of the heavy drops falling 
on the asphalt. A fitting finish to a dream that ought 
never to have been dreamed. 

Beatrice was going back to town for the purpose 
of joining her father, who had remained in London, 
despite the heat, for reasons which he did not explain 
to his daughter, who, while she enjoyed as much of 
his confidence as anyone, knew very little about his 
affairs. She was very unpleasantly struck with his 
appearance when she saw him. He looked ill, and 
seemed to have aged unaccountably during the short 
time that she had been away. He attributed this to 
the weather, and brushed her anxious inquiries aside, 
showing irritation when she made any reference to 
his health. 

During dinner, at which meal Edward Ashleigh 
was present, Beatrice, observing her father with a 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


53 


greater attentiveness than usual, noticed his lack of 
appetite, which showed itself less in a disinclination 
for food than a physical inability to swallow. While 
making a pretence of eating, he endeavoured to show 
some interest in her doings, questioning her about her 
week on the river, and receiving her replies with a 
wandering attention which surprised and distressed 
her. 

At the finish of the meal he went to his study, 
and the brother and sister were left alone. Charlie 
was staying at the Enfields’ place in Berkshire, and 
Edward was leaving town on the morrow. He had 
run up on receipt of a message from his father, and 
had waited only for his sister’s return. He was, Bea- 
trice realised, considerably worried. She could not 
determine whether this arose from anxiety on their 
father’s account, or from other reasons. He was reti- 
cent in manner, and obviously desirous of allaying 
her fears. 

The governor’s ' out of sorts,” he said. “It is a 
good thing you are off to the sea so soon. He is 
nervous about himself, poor old chap! Sent for me 
in a hurry the other day. Business worries, I fancy; 
but he doesn’t open out. Talked a little about invest- 
ments, and then shut up like an oyster. You must 
keep an eye on him, Bee, and not let him overdo it. 
He had a bit of a seizure ... it was very slight, 
whatever it was. He thinks it was a seizure, but he 
is quite likely to be mistaken.” 

“Didn’t he see Doctor Fuller?” Beatrice asked, lift- 
ing startled eyes to his face. 


54 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


He stroked his small moustache, and tried to look 
unconcerned. 

“Oh, yes — the next day. He prescribed rest, which 
the governor doesn’t take, and physic, which I believe 
he does. But the sea air will do him more good than 
anything else. It’s possibly only the heat. Don’t 
alarm yourself needlessly. He’ll be all right in a week 
or so.” 

She shook her head. 

“He looks very ill, Teddy,” she said. 

He had no answer to that, and so remained silent; 
and Beatrice sat silent too, trying hard to view the 
matter lightly as he advised, and feeling none the 
less a chill presentiment of coming calamity. She 
was in the humour to see the black side of things. 

“You are as brown as a gipsy,” her brother re- 
marked presently, surveying with a certain disap- 
proval the tan which concealed the unnatural pallor 
of her cheeks. 

She became aware of the criticism in his eyes and 
flushed warmly and averted her gaze. 

“It’s the wind and the sun,” she said. 

“You’ve been living in the open — yes. Boating 
hard all the time, I suppose? See much of Hurst?” 

“Yes,” she answered, and found it impossible to add 
anything to the bald admission. 

There followed an immense, significant silence. 
Beatrice felt, without understanding why, that Ed- 
ward was annoyed. There was tension in the atmos- 
phere, a sense of something impending that held her 
rigid, waiting in confused expectancy for his next 
remark. It came after an almost intolerable pause. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


55 


“I consider it was indecent of Hurst to go,” he said. 

She glanced up quickly. 

“Why ‘indecent’ ?” she asked, catching at the of- 
fensive term. 

He beat the carpet impatiently with his foot, and 
then got up and walked to the hearthrug, where he 
stood for a second with his back to her, and then 
faced deliberately round. 

“He’s — entangled,” he said, and frowned, and ex- 
amined his finger nails with a close attentiveness 
which seemed to point to a desire to avoid her gaze. 
“I wouldn’t have told you if he’d played the game,” 
he added, with a touch of bitterness, as though he felt 
it necessary, and at the same time difficult, to excuse 
this betrayal of a confidence. “He’s entangled with 
a married woman. He nearly made a mess of things 
in India, and then had the luck to go down with fever 
and get sent home. The fool of a woman followed 
him, unfortunately. She’s in England now.” 

Beatrice felt the blood in her veins turning to ice 
as she listened. This, then — this sordid tale of dis- 
honour — was the difficulty at which he had hinted, the 
something he could not tell her, which he had prom- 
ised one day to disclose in the belief that she would 
understand and pity him and — he had not said it, but 
his manner had conveyed the hope — condone. She 
did not feel pity for him at the moment ; she was sen- 
sible only of a slowly kindling anger, a keen disgust. 
Her face hardened. 

“You ought never to have brought a man of that 
character to the house,” she said. 


56 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


He reddened, and for a space found no answer. 
Then he said jerkily: 

“You didn’t seem to spare him a thought. . . . 

And he isn’t altogether to blame. A woman like 
that ...” 

“He cares for her, I suppose?” she said. 

“Oh, I don’t know! It was another case of the 
cruel husband, and Hurst had a fancy to act com- 
forter. She’s an attractive-looking woman, and 
rather a sporting sort, and he was flattered with her 
preference. He’s sick to death of it now, of course.” 

He took his cigarette-case from his pocket, and 
made an elaborate business of selecting and lighting a 
cigarette, while Beatrice, feeling numbed and chill, 
watched him with wide expressionless eyes. Pres- 
ently she said: 

“I wonder why you told me.” 

He fidgeted with his cigarette, taking it from his 
mouth and then thrusting it again between his lips 
with a hardly restrained impatience. He felt oddly 
irritated with her for pursuing the subject. She had 
the facts. He felt that she would have displayed bet- 
ter taste in allowing the matter to drop. 

“You’ve been seeing a lot of Hurst lately. I didn’t 
wish you to get too friendly,” he said. “He ought to 
have kept away.” 

“Yes,” she answered, and was painfully aware of 
the tremor in her voice which she could not altogether 
control. “In the circumstances, I agree with you; 
he ought to have kept away.” 

She thought of Hurst’s words, uttered only that 
morning — words which had given her such pleasure 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


57 


at the time, “Cornwall isn't so very far . . and 
the fear that he might seek her out there caused her 
to add: 

“I think it will be well if you advise him to keep 
away in future." 

And without waiting for any response she rose and 
quitted the room. The dream was fading for her too 
- — going the way of dreams, leaving only the blurred, 
bewildering impression of unsubstantial things. 


VI 


T T was in its way a fortunate circumstance for 
Beatrice that her father's condition called for so 
much watchfulness and attention that, in her anxiety 
on his account, her own troubles dwindled propor- 
tionately and no longer usurped the principal place in 
her thoughts. 

The greatest difficulty in his case was to induce him 
to take food; he went for the greater part of a month 
in a state of semi-starvation, had a nasty turn in the 
boat one day, and then unaccountably began to mend. 
The sea air and the rest helped materially towards 
his improvement; and to Beatrice’s satisfaction he de- 
cided to remain in Fowey until the end of the summer. 

“It will be dull for you. Do you mind?” he asked. 

“I don’t find it dull,” she answered — “now you are 
getting well. I like it here.” 

He looked at her with a strange wistfulness in his 
eyes, and made no response. But two days later 
Charlie came down for a week ; and Beatrice strongly 
suspected that her father had suggested his visit with 
a view to making things brighter for her. She never 
asked the question. On the whole, she was pleased to 
see her brother. .His airy gaiety, despite a broken 
heart about which he was cheerfully insistent, was in- 
fectious; an atmosphere of careless, arrogant, good- 
58 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


59 


humoured youthfulness clung to Charlie, and invaded, 
and generally routed, any opposing humours. 

On the present occasion he was so charged with 
exasperation at the announcement of Ellie Enfield’s 
engagement, a disaster that was only a few days old, 
that he confined himself when alone with Beatrice to 
the expression of extravagant regrets, and the denun- 
ciation of the middle-aged fiance. 

“She doesn’t care that much for him,” he declared, 
and flicked a contemptuous finger. 

“Did she tell you so?” inquired Beatrice. 

“Of course she did. Elbe’s awfully fond of me. 
She’d have waited for me — years, if they’d let her. 
Arkwright is beastly rich — and he’s bald ” 

“Well, you can do the waiting,” Beatrice returned 
soothingly. “By the time you are beastly rich Ellie 
may be a widow.” 

“Not she. Arkwright will take good care of that. 
He’s as strong as an ox. If Ellie had any spirit she’d 
elope with me.” 

“Have you suggested it to her ?” 

Charlie looked a trifle sheepish. 

“My good Bee, you want to know too much,” he 
said, and turned from staring out of the window to 
regard his sister, who remained in her seat at the 
breakfast-table, idly crumbling a piece of bread on 
her plate. “Look here ! Let’s go for a walk,” he said. 

She made no immediate response to this, but con- 
tinued playing with the breadcrumbs with inconse- 
quent fingers and an inattentive face. He scrutinised 
her for a moment in silence. 


60 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“Do you know/’ he then said, with disconcerting 
suddenness, “you are growing slow ?” 

Beatrice lifted her glance swiftly and flushed. 

“You haven’t said a single smart thing since I ar- 
rived,” he complained. “You aren’t even a good lis- 
tener. What’s up ?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, and deliberated 
awhile. “I am afraid I am losing my vitality,” she 
said, as an outcome of this reflection. 

“Rot!” he ejaculated. “It’s not like you to be 
affected. You’ve been in too close attendance on the 
governor; the worry has got upon your nerves. I’ve 
half a mind to take you to church by way of con- 
trast. You want bracing morally.” 

She laughed. 

“All right. I don’t mind. I haven’t been inside a 
church since I left college.” 

“Well, I’m not confident enough to bet,” he replied, 
“that I can find my place in the church service. But 
it really doesn’t matter much.” 

By a strange chance it transpired that at the church 
they attended the plain young curate whom Beatrice 
had loved in her college days was taking duty, and, to 
her intense satisfaction, he preached the morning ser- 
mon. He was vicar now, and had altered a little in 
appearance, had filled out and matured and lost the 
hesitating diffidence of manner which had once com- 
mended itself to her because of its suggestion of pleas- 
ing modesty. But the weak eyes and weaker chin 
were still distinctive features; and the flabby sallow- 
ness of hi? skin remained, unhealthy and anaemic as 
of yore. His sermon was of the trite conventional 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


61 


order; it conveyed, to one listener at least, nothing 
new, nothing stirring, or inspiring, or particularly 
hopeful ; it revealed however a conscientious industry 
in the construction of sentences, and the choice of 
vague and high-sounding phrases. The selection of 
words, rather than a grip on ideas, seemed of para- 
mount importance. 

“Bit on the dull side, that chap,” Charlie comment- 
ed, as they passed out into the sunshine again with 
the rest of the sparse congregation. He glanced at 
Beatrice’s smiling face, detected the laugh in her eyes, 
and showed his amaze. 

“Upon my soul! I believe that form of entertain- 
ment suits you,” he said. “You are of the stuff that 
makes a parish worker, and a struggling curate’s wife. 
What ironic fate .set you down among atheistical sur- 
roundings, I wonder ? You will be leaving us one day, 
my good Beatrice, to join the Brass Band — or what- 
ever it is they call the female contingent that, out of 
love for the service or the cloth, cleans the brasses in 
the churches. We shall hear of you yet as a shining 
light at missionary and temperance meetings, and the 
star of some pale young curate’s home.” 

“I would have been the star of that particular cu- 
rate’s home, if he had done me the honour to ask me,” 
she said, and recounted that early romance for his 
edification. 

Charlie chuckled. 

“Prudent man!” he observed. “I guess he had a 
let off.” 

“I am not sure,” Beatrice retorted, “that it is not 
rather I who deserve your congratulations. The odd 


62 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


fancies girls have! I believe it was his unhealthiness 
I liked. It made me feel motherly. I have an idea 
that was his wife who sat in front of us — the woman 
with the peevish face and the generally worried look. 
Probably she found his sickliness interesting until she 
had to live with it. Familiarity does not stimulate the 
sympathies.” 

“You are jealous, Bee; your bitterness proves it. 
Sounds as though you have hankerings for your 
mealy- faced pastor still. You ought to have been the 
daughter of our reverend uncle. I think I should 
have liked you as a cousin — even as a disapproving 
cousin, with an invisible nimbus and an air of pious 
reproof. Fd have let you try your hand at reform- 
ing me. Funny one doesn’t feel that way with one’s 
sister.” 

“You goose!” she returned, amused. “There is 
nothing in you needs reforming. You are as harmless 
as you are absurd.” 

“Mrs. Enfield says that — or something very like 
it,” he replied in a discontented voice, as though in his 
opinion a reputation for worth was an offence. “She 
will never be able to say it of Arkwright, anyway. 
He’s lived his life all right.” 

“Someone else is bitter now,” said Beatrice. “Is 
that a proof of jealousy in you?” 

“Jealous! ... of Arkwright? Not much. I’d 
like to shoot the blighter. Pistols for two and coffee 
for one in the good old style — if I were sure I should 
drink the coffee, that is. I shouldn’t care to snuff out 
before I’ve had my innings.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


63 


“No,” she replied. “Sentiment would be fairly 
costly at that price.” 

“Well, there isn’t much sentiment about you,” her 
brother declared, “or you wouldn’t discuss your 
anaemic love affair in the bloodless way in which you 
do.” 

“Isn’t it a fitting way of discussing an anaemic af- 
fair?” she asked. 

Charlie grinned. 

“I suppose it might be. Personally I have no ex- 
perience of anaemic affairs; mine are hot-blooded. I 
go about in a state of quotation — you know the lines 
— who was the chap who wrote them, by the way? — 
‘ ’Twere better to have loved and lost than never to 
have loved at all.’ I consider that very illuminating — 
though I’m hanged if I know what it illuminates. But 
it fits, somehow. However, after Elbe’s married I’m 
going to see if I can’t recover some of the loss. She 
says afterwards we can be the best of chums. I 
daresay we shall be.” 

“I fancy that role will suit you better than the 
other,” Beatrice answered. “And I can’t imagine even 
Mr. Arkwright objecting.” 

“There is something in having a reputation for be- 
ing a white-haired boy, after all,” Charlie replied 
cheerfully. “I don’t know how I earned it, but I am 
beginning to reckon it an asset. I wonder what you 
all would have said if Elbe had crossed the Channel 
with me. There’s time yet; she doesn’t tie the knot 
until the spring.” 

“Elbe is too much her mother’s daughter to do any- 
thing so utterly foolish,” Beatrice asserted. “And I 


64 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


doubt whether you could find the passage money even.’' 

“The beastly money again!” he ejaculated, in a 
tone of disgust. “The currency slime is over every- 
thing — except me,” he added, and broke into an airy 
laugh. “There’s no gilt on this gingerbread, worse 
luck!” 

The money shortage was ever a serious question 
with Charlie. He received a fairly generous allow- 
ance from his father; but he never by any chance came 
out on it. However, appeals to the fountain-head 
usually met with a satisfactory response. He had 
come down now with the intention of putting forward 
a further appeal, and he entertained not the slightest 
doubt that he would obtain what he wanted. The 
first intimation of the limit of his father’s patience 
came as a shock when later he preferred his request 
and met with a refusal. It was such a surprise to him 
that it left him with nothing to say; he could not even 
urge the pressing nature of his need in face of that 
point-blank denial, which, by reason of its unprece- 
dented character, carried the conviction of an unalter- 
able decision. Mr. Ashleigh gave no explanation of 
his refusal, other thaii that conveyed in his brief 
homily. 

“A wise man lives within his means,” he observed, 
“however small these may be; he has no right to look 
for benefits save those he earns for himself. Self- 
denial is self-discipline — practise it. I have not,” he 
added, after a slight pause, surveying his son’s crest- 
fallen mien, “adhered strictly to this principle myself. 
I am regretting that now. In your case it will be 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


65 


well to remember that self-dependence is the keynote 
of happiness and success/’ 

Which was all very well in its way, Charlie opined, 
but was no help in the present strait. The advice 
would have been more acceptable had it been accom- 
panied by a correspondingly elegant cheque. It was 
easy to assume the role of rhetorical moralist when 
one was not financially embarrassed. 

“Curtail your expenditure until your debts are set- 
tled.” 

That too sounded simple. But simple expedients 
are so beastly inconvenient. 

Charlie’s debts were in no wise considerable; but 
the necessity for economy irked him, and the knowl- 
edge that he could no longer spend money with an 
optimistic belief in a never-failing source of supply 
worried him far more than any number of debts could 
have. All his pleasant illusions were fading away into 
nothingness. This was the second ugly surprise to 
overtake him in a week, and it was, though he would 
not have admitted it, more of a facer than the first. 

“I am considering chucking everything in favour of 
posing for the kinema,” he confided to Beatrice. 
“Pots of money are made that way.” 

“Quite possibly,” she returned, without enthusiasm. 
“The meanest use of one’s talents is best appreciated 
by the majority. But yours is rather a sordid ambi- 
tion, Charlie. What do you want with pots of 
money ?” 

“To have a good time, of course,” he replied. 
“Money isn’t of any use except for what it brings. 
And I don’t see that ambition is much use either. .It’s 


66 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


merely a form of vanity — an attempt to outdistance 
the rest. I want to have a right good time while I’m 
young, and peg out comfortably before I’m too old to 
enjoy life.” 

“That’s just selfishness,” she said. “And it doesn’t 
work. Lots of people have tried it. One can’t live 
simply for one’s self.” 

“I don’t see why one can’t,” he contended. 

“One can’t because no one is an entirety; we are 
insignificant parts of a huge machinery. We’ve got 
to do our part whether we want to or no. There isn’t 
any getting away from it.” 

“I don’t recognise any logical argument in that 
against having a good time,” he insisted. 

“No. Only when we are out for enjoyment some- 
one blunders across our path and — spoils things.” 


VII 


1\TR. ASHLEIGH was .so far recovered by the 
time they returned to town that Beatrice’s anx- 
iety on his account was allayed. She ceased to re- 
gard him as an invalid. Although he was increasingly 
nervous about his health, he contrived to hide this 
from his daughter, and he encouraged her in the be- 
lief that he was as strong as before the attack, which 
he realised was more serious than the doctor allowed. 
Another such attack, he believed, would be the finish. 
He lived with this dread troubling him daily; yet 
Beatrice, who was with him constantly, never sus- 
pected it. He appeared to her unchanged in any re- 
spect, save that he looked older and more enfeebled. 
But he had never been particularly robust, and he was 
no longer a young man. The fact that his hair was 
whiter, that he dragged his feet in walking, seemed to 
her the natural accompaniment of increasing years. 
She had no experience of illness and, seeing him so 
much better, believed him to be well. 

The winter was a full, if not a particularly happy, 
time for Beatrice. Mrs. Enfield, having settled her 
daughter to her entire satisfaction, was pursuing with 
extraordinary industry her efforts on Beatrice’s be- 
half. Beatrice could, had she wished, have married 
a dissolute peer, or a rising politician of the type rec- 
ti 7 


68 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


ognised as likely to be a force in the House some day, 
if the results justified the promise. She liked this 
man — he was called Wilson — but at no time was she 
in love with him. He admired her immensely, which 
was not surprising; she was one of the most beauti-, 
ful girls in London. 

Mrs. Enfield would have preferred the peer as a 
husband for her protegee; the politician, not having 
risen, was not particularly noteworthy; and the title 
added lustre. The owner’s private character she was 
inclined to slur over; possibly in the lustre of the title 
it was lost sight of. But since Beatrice ruled him 
out in the bluntest manner, she set to work with con- 
siderable determination to bring the political affair to 
a triumphant issue, knowing nothing of that poor little 
romance which had been nipped before it blossomed. 

Beatrice never saw Hurst now. Whether Edward 
had conveyed a hint to him, or if he were sticking to 
his oft-made and formerly ill-kept resolve to see her 
no more, she had no means of judging. He was sta- 
tioned at Aldershot, she believed. Teddy was also at 
Aldershot; but that circumstance was not calculated 
to gain her any information concerning the man whose 
influence over her, despite what she had learned to his 
discredit, was too great for her to banish him from 
her thoughts, or to expel him from the place he had 
made for himself in her affections. She despised her- 
self for loving him ; but no amount of scorn could alter 
facts. The one grain of comfort — it was a very small 
grain — in the whole miserable affair was that no one 
knew about it. The secret was her own ; she had con- 
fided it to no one. There had been so little to confide 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


69 


— just the call of one heart to another, a break, and 
then silence — the answering voice was stilled, lost 
amid the distracting echoes that drowned by their 
confusion the purer sound. 

During the entire winter Mrs. Enfield did not relax 
her matrimonial efforts. She believed she was suc- 
ceeding admirably. Ernest Wilson had reached the 
stage which advertises itself by the sending of floral 
gifts, and the display of marked attention. Beatrice, 
so far as Mrs. Enfield was able to judge, did not dis- 
courage him. He was not easily discouraged, holding 
himself in very good esteem, and attacking the busi- 
ness of courtship, as he attacked the business of life, 
with the pertinacity of a man accustomed to attaining 
his end, even when faced with considerable opposition. 
He recognised the opposition. Beatrice was so in- 
sistently friendly, so determined not to admit the ele- 
ment of sentiment into their intercourse, that he real- 
ised quite clearly the business of wooing her was like- 
ly to be a lengthy and difficult matter. But difficul- 
ties attracted him; and it pleased him to think that 
the girl he honoured with his affection was not to be 
easily won. Her manifest reluctance formed a large 
share of her fascination for him. At the same time, 
he had no intention of waiting indefinitely; he meant 
to have some kind of answer before the winter passed. 

“You can’t, you know, keep me for ever on the 
doorstep,” he observed to her one evening. 

They were sitting in a sort of sham conservatory 
off the stairs at a house where music was the osten- 
sible reason for the gathering, and he had made some 
remark of a more intimate character than usual which 


70 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


had not been well received. At his last speech Be- 
atrice turned more directly towards him and smiled 
faintly. 

'‘No one need remain on a doorstep/’ she replied. 
"There is always the alternative of going away.” 

He reddened and looked vexed. 

"I don’t think that was a particularly kind speech,” 
he protested. 

"Perhaps,” she allowed, "it wasn’t. But then, I 
don’t consider there was any reason in your complaint 
I admitted you across the threshold of friendship long 
ago.” 

"Oh, friendship!” he said. . . . "Yes. But that 

isn’t enough for me. You must have realised ere this 
that I want more than friendship from you.” 

She shook her head. 

"It’s no use,” she said — "not the slightest. I haven’t 
anything more to give. I like you — very much. I 
enjoy talking with you; I am always glad to see you, 
but — that’s all.” 

"That is quite good for a start,” he said. "I’m not 
exacting, and I’ve a fair amount of patience, I be- 
lieve. Only it’s chilly on the doorstep. Don’t repeat 
your advice, please; that is chillier. Besides, I have 
an antipathy for beating a retreat.” 

"Forward is a good watchword for a politician,” 
she said. 

"Yes,” he agreed. "I have adopted it.” 

"At the same time,” she argued, "what applies to 
public life can’t always be fitted to a man’s domestic 
affairs. You’ve got to keep the two things separate.” 

"In a way, yes,” he allowed. Then he plunged 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


71 


clumsily. “A man looks to his wife for a lot of help 
in his public life, all the same. Mainly that’s what he 
marries for. Marriage is a highly important move in 
the game.” 

This view, although not altogether new, surprised 
Beatrice, coming from Wilson. She had not heard it 
expressed before. That the most important adventure 
in life should be subordinated to a man’s career 
sounded oddly in her ears, jarred her sense of pro- 
portion. To select a mate with regard primarily to 
certain essentials that were likely to prove helpful to 
one’s advancement, seemed to her exalting the lesser 
at the expense of significant things. 

“I should have supposed that marriage might be 
reckoned the most important move in life,” she re- 
turned quietly. “That’s how I regard it. After all, it 
stands for the happiness or unhappiness of two per- 
sons. That is not a light consideration.” 

“No,” he said, “of course not. It is an important 
step. If more people realised its importance there 
wouldn’t be so many unsuitable matches. One needs 
to be prudent — to look at the question all round. It 
isn’t a matter only of physical attraction ; it is a mat- 
ter of general suitability and mutual helpfulness. 
These things ensure happiness.” 

“Do they? It sounds to me cold and unsatisfying. 
I fancy there is more than a touch of the primitive 
savage in me. Your argument for suitability repels 
me. There is only one quality which is essential, and 
that embraces everything.” 

“What is it?” he asked. 


72 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“You will know when you experience it,” she an- 
swered, smiling. 

“Ah !” he said. “Perhaps I have experienced it.” 

She shook her head, smiling still. 

“Oh, dear, no! You will cease to be a philosopher 
when you do.” 

He sat up a little stiffly. 

“I don’t think you understand me very well,” he 
said. 

Beatrice met his protesting eyes frankly, with noth- 
ing warmer in her own than a kindly interest. She 
had never seen him in any than a confident mood be- 
fore; the air of aggrieved, half-sulky perplexity sat 
ill upon him. She preferred him confident and as- 
sertive ; these qualities were natural to the man. 

“Does anyone ever understand another human be- 
ing?” she asked. 

“I think so. It’s largely a matter of sympathy.” 

“Then that’s a quality I must be altogether lacking 
in,” she returned. “The human mind is an eternal 
puzzle to me. It’s just a muddle of fine things and 
base; and it appears to be due chiefly to the accident 
of circumstance which quality prevails.” 

“Isn’t that rather a bitter theory?” he asked. 

It occurred to him that her expression as well as 
her words were bitter, as he watched the partly avert- 
ed face, and noted the clouded look in the soft eyes, 
darkened' momentarily by the ghost memories of un- 
bidden thought. 

“Let us pride ourselves we are made of stouter stuff 
than that. Our wills at least are not governed by 
chance. I’ve a kind of feeling that if I yielded to a 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


73 


base impulse it would be deliberate and not accidental. 
I don’t wish to shirk responsibility for my acts. There 
is something undignified in that idea.” 

She looked at him again, arrested by his words, and 
interested. He was himself once more, authoritative, 
assured, slightly didactic. She understood that in con- 
tinuing the subject he was humouring her, that he did 
not take her altogether seriously; he held quite con- 
ventional views in respect to feminine intelligence. She 
knew that; but it had never seemed to her that his 
views mattered particularly. She liked him apart 
from those small issues. What he had said concern- 
ing a man’s responsibility in obeying his impulses im- 
pressed her ; it swept away the flimsy defence she had 
put forward deliberately in extenuation of human 
frailty. There was not a shred of justification in her 
argument. Each one is directly responsible for his 
own acts. It is the deed which forms the character; 
character has no part in shaping the deed. 

Almost she wished he had left her her shadowy re- 
flective comfort; she had derived a gleam of satisfac- 
tion from it. Now she felt rather like a person who 
has been robbed. Although the thing filched from her 
had been valueless, she resented the theft. 

Before she had time to answer, if indeed she could 
have found an answer to his speech, the greenery be- 
hind them parted, and Charlie’s boyish, cheery coun- 
tenance beamed upon them through the opening. 

“You have a genius for rendering yourself invis- 
ible, Bee, my dear,” he observed pleasantly. “By 
obeying my intuition and searching for you in the 
most sequestered spots, I have unearthed you without 


74 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


undue delay. Mrs. Enfield is in a hurry to get, so 
you had better come out into the open.” 

“Leaving already?” Wilson protested, rising when 
Beatrice rose, and surveying the interrupter with dis- 
favour in his glance. “It’s quite early.” 

“I expect we are going on somewhere,” Beatrice 
explained. 

“That’s it,” her brother responded. “Harmony cre- 
ates discord in Mrs. Enfield’s soul. She doesn’t her- 
self allow it’s her soul; she says it gives her indiges- 
tion. But it’s entirely a matter of opinion in which 
part of the anatomy the soul is located. I think my- 
self it is adjacent to the liver. Are you ready, Bee?” 

He held the palms aside for her to pass. She 
turned and looked back at her late companion across 
the green barricade which hedged him about. 

“It is sequestered,” she said, and smiled. “You 
look — lonely.” 

“Come back,” he suggested. 

“I would if it wasn’t for the indigestion,” she said. 

Wilson thrust the ferns aside and followed her. 
He had had enough of the music too. If she was 
leaving he no longer cared to remain. 


VIII 


IVTATTERS continued in this unsatisfactory in- 
determinate state throughout the winter. Twice 
Wilson broached tentatively the subject of marriage, 
and met with no success : the third attempt would not 
be tentative; he purposed making a quite definite and 
final proposal, and abide by Beatrice’s decision, what- 
ever it might be. Because he was so settled in his 
purpose he hesitated to make his third appeal, being 
apprehensive as to the result, and liking ill the thought 
of failure which he foresaw was not inevitable — in- 
deed, it occurred to him at times that his chances of 
success were not great. Although aware that Beatrice 
liked him, he realised that she entertained no very 
deep feeling for him. So many men paid her marked 
attention at that time that she was little likely to be 
moved to a reciprocal tenderness by the devotion of a 
particular man unless she were predisposed towards 
caring for him. He could by no means flatter him- 
self that he had won her love. 

While he pursued his uncertain courtship, while 
Mrs. Enfield, occupied with her daughter’s approach- 
ing marriage, relaxed her efforts on Beatrice’s behalf, 
believing that Beatrice’s affairs were all but settled; 
and while Beatrice herself fretted away the days in 
futile regrets, Mr. Ashleigh, unheeded in the rush of 
selfish preoccupation, quietly loosened his hold on life 
75 


76 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


and slipped unobtrusively away, leaving the muddle 
he had contrived to get his affairs into to straighten 
itself or remain muddled, shifting his responsibilities 
as easily as he cast off the burden of living, not be- 
cause he desired to, but because he was incapable of 
making the effort to right things. His misfortunes 
had crashed down upon him unexpectedly; they were 
largely responsible for the stroke which ended in his 
death. 

By a fortunate chance Beatrice was with him at the 
time of his seizure. Mrs. Enfield had gone to Paris 
with Elbe for the mysterious purpose of the trous- 
seau; it being a thoroughly substantiated fact that 
England is incapable of clothing her daughters suit- 
ably for so important an occasion, which is pathetic 
when one reflects upon the number of girls who can- 
not afford to go to Paris. Mrs. Enfield had wished 
Beatrice to accompany them ; and until almost the 
eleventh hour it had been agreed that she should; at 
the eleventh hour, however, an unaccountable uneasi- 
ness had decided her to remain at home. She did not 
know what she feared; the dread was instinctive; she 
had no tangible grounds for deciding at the last mo- 
ment against going ; her reluctance to leave home, how- 
ever, was irresistible. Later she believed she had been 
directed in this matter by forces outside her control. 

On the afternoon that her father was taken ill she 
happened to be out. She returned in time for the five- 
o’clock tea, which, when she was at home, they in- 
variably took together. It was a little after five, and 
she ran upstairs to the drawing-room, loosening her 
furs as she went, and throwing them carelessly on to 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


77 


a chair near the door when she entered the room, 
which, lighted only by one shaded electric lamp on the 
tea-table, and by the warm, dull glow of the fire, 
seemed to her tenantless for the moment after enter- 
ing, until she detected the outline of her father’s fig- 
ure sitting awkwardly crumpled together on a sofa. 
It was the unnatural stillness which had given the 
room its air of being unoccupied : the unnatural quiet 
of her father’s pose accentuated this sense of empti- 
ness; it caused her a queer stab of uneasiness. 

“Father !” she called softly. 

She approached nearer the sofa, went quite close to 
him, and bent down and looked into his face. It 
seemed to her in the first shock of uncomprehending 
terror that he was making grimaces at her, trying to 
frighten her; the next, she understood; and, with a 
sudden sick tightening at the heart, she leaned forward 
and pressed the bell, keeping her finger on it until the 
sound of hurrying feet assured her that the summons 
was being answered. 

“Send for the doctor,” she said quietly, as the door 
opened — “quickly. Take a taxi. There is not a min- 
ute for delay.” 

Then she took the crumpled, speechless form in her 
arms and laid it back against the cushions in a more 
reposeful attitude, and sat beside it until assistance 
came. 

Mr. Ashleigh did not die that day, nor for several 
days. His sons came home in haste. He did not know 
them. He never regained consciousness, nor the pow- 
er of movement or articulation. It seemed to Beatrice, 
when she stood beside the bed and looked on the still 


78 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


figure lying upon it, that it was but the husk of the 
man that lay there; that the spirit had already de- 
parted and left the body breathing and still warm, yet 
dead in every essential save that of actual physical de- 
cay. She felt almost as though this were some 
stranger, and not the dear familiar form she loved. 

Beatrice was undemonstrably deeply attached to her 
father; his illness, with the fear of impending loss, 
stunned her. She could not think what she would do 
when he had left her. They had always been to- 
gether; her brothers, since they had grown up, since 
the one had his profession and outside interests, and 
the other had gone to Oxford and found separate in- 
terests also, had grown apart from the home life. 
There would not be, she realised with a sense of an- 
ticipatory loneliness, any home life when her father 
died, unless Teddy were willing to make a home with 
her. She did not feel very confident about that. If 
he were not willing, she imagined that she would con- 
tinue living there alone. 

The idea of living alone frightened her — alone in 
those big empty rooms, haunted with a memory, a 
presence which would be there and yet be invisible. 
She could not face the thought. She turned from it, 
shuddering, and wandered back to the sick-room to 
watch for some change, some sign which promised the 
recovery that she knew in her heart to be impossible. 

The change when it did come was so slight as to 
be almost imperceptible. The sick man passed from 
unconsciousness to death — passed so quietly and 
swiftly that no one except the nurse was with him 
when he died in the early hours of the morning when 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


79 


vitality is at its lowest and the thread of life snaps 
easily. It snapped so easily in his case that, save for 
the cessation of the breathing, and the settled dignity 
that composed the still features in the mask which 
death alone wears, it would have seemed to Beatrice, 
leaning over him, that no great change had come upon 
him since she had seen him last. She had looked upon 
the husk of the man then ; it was the husk she looked 
upon now. He was still warm when for a moment she 
placed her hand upon his breast — warm but pulseless. 
The heart which had loved her was still — still with 
an awful, terrifying stillness. She felt that she must 
do something — lay hands upon the quiet form and 
shake it — do anything in order to set once more in 
motion the heart which had run down and could never 
beat again. 

And then someone took her by the hand and drew 
her away from the bed and led her unresisting from 
the room. It was Charlie — Charlie who hated sad- 
ness, who cared only for what was jolly and bright. 
Charlie’s expression was grave enough at the moment. 

“He knows all about it by now, I expect — the dear 
old chap,” he said. 

Beatrice lifted her eyes, dark with the weight of 
their first great sorrow, to his. and scrutinised him in 
perplexed silence. 

“The other side,” he added jerkily. 

“Oh!” said Beatrice. 

And then slowly the tears came — the first she had 
shed throughout those weary days. 

Mr. Ashleigh’s only surviving brother, the Rever- 
end Thomas Ashleigh, came up from Devonshire for 


80 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


the funeral. He was in everything but name a 
stranger to his brother’s family. Beatrice knew there 
was an uncle who was vicar of Wedgemere; she 
also knew that her father had quarrelled with him 
long ago, and had consistently refused the overtures 
towards reconciliation which were issued annually 
from the vicarage at the season of peace and goodwill. 
Mr. Ashleigh had been wont to refer to his brother as 
a canting hypocrite. It was therefore with no great 
cordiality that the children of the dead man prepared 
to receive this uncle whom they had never met. Ed- 
ward Ashleigh alone experienced some slight relief at 
his coming; the burden of his father’s affairs, into 
which he had been going with the latter’s solicitor, 
being rather much for his shouldering with no other 
than professional counsel to help him to meet the shock 
of revelation, and discover a way out of the appalling 
muddle, a means of carrying on for a while and mak- 
ing some arrangement for his sister’s future. When 
everything was settled up there would not be, so far 
as he could make out, enough for Beatrice to live upon. 

Mr. Thomas Ashleigh, as counsellor, proved dis- 
appointing; his business acumen was less than his 
nephew’s. He was a simple-souled, kindly man, with 
no great brilliance of intellect, but with a certain 
amount of common sense and a big and generous na- 
ture. 

“I cannot help you with your father’s affairs,” he 
said to his nephew. “You must settle those with his 
solicitor. I understand nothing about finance, and the 
share market is unintelligible to me. Will there be 
nothing saved to you?” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


81 


“Practically nothing,” Edward Ashleigh answered 
moodily. “What can be scraped together will of 
course be safely invested for Beatrice.” 

It was then that the man, who was in his nephew’s 
opinion little better than an imbecile in worldly mat- 
ters, showed his usefulness. If he could not help in 
regard to the business part, this was something which 
he could do ; and he did it, as was his nature, promptly 
and simply. 

“Never mind about Beatrice,” he said. “For a time 
— for as long as she wishes — she can make her home 
with us. I should take her back with me, in any case. 
Her aunt is looking forward to her coming, and is 
expecting her. What I advise, if I may be permitted 
to make a suggestion without appearing to wish to in- 
terfere, is that Charles should continue with his course 
at Oxford so that his future shall be assured. When 
he is through then, if there is anything left, invest it 
for Beatrice. But there need be no concern for her 
future with two brothers behind her, and an old uncle 
who is happy to be able at last to show his affection 
for, and to attempt to win in return the affection of, 
his own kindred. A sad misunderstanding, having its 
origin in a wide divergence of opinion, separated your 
father and myself. But his death has altered all that; 
and I am confident that if it were possible for him to 
clasp my hand now in brotherly love he would do so 
unhesitatingly, as I have done often in my thoughts. 
All misunderstanding must end with this life. It is 
unthinkable that it could be otherwise.” 

He expounded his simple philosophy to his nephew’s 
indifferent, inattentive ears with no shadow of doubt 


82 


BEATKICE ASHLEIGH 


of the young man’s understanding and sympathy. Ed- 
ward Ashleigh set th^t part of his speech aside as 
though it were of no importance, and, in comparison 
with his own harassed thoughts, this reference to an 
old-time feud sounded to him irrelevant, even trivial; 
the part of his uncle’s speech which was deserving not 
only of attention but of gratitude, was that portion 
which bore directly on Beatrice’s future. The practi- 
cal offer of assistance afforded a solution of the im- 
mediate difficulty; it gave him time to make arrange- 
ments. Later, doubtless, something might be contrived 
that would obviate the need for Beatrice to trespass 
on her relations’ kindness. It was not to be thought of 
that his sister should accept hospitality in the form of 
charity from anyone, even from her own uncle; but 
for the present there was nothing else so far as Ed- 
ward could see for her to do. The storm had broken 
so unexpectedly: the vicarage offered a shelter, and 
there was none other available. 

Edward Ashleigh was not at all sure how Beatrice 
would receive their uncle’s invitation. He had an idea 
that she would object to go to these unknown rela- 
tions. If she showed disinclination to accept, he 
meant to use persuasion. Clearly in the circumstances 
there was no choice open to her. Beatrice, however, 
revealed a surprising apathy when, alone with her in 
the evening on the day of the funeral, he told her as 
much as he knew of their circumstances, and asked her 
if it would be agreeable to her to accompany their 
uncle on the morrow and remain with her relations 
for a time until he could make other arrangements. 

Beatrice was too depressed, too utterly absorbed in 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


83 


her unhappiness, to give adequate thought to anything 
beyond these immediate distresses. She only vaguely 
apprehended her brother’s meaning, and when he spoke 
of selling everything and giving up the house, she 
glanced round the handsome room with dull, uncom- 
prehending eyes that rested mournfully upon familiar 
objects, so much a part of her. existence that she could 
not realise their passing from her. Yet Teddy spoke 
of selling them — the good old pictures, the collection 
of years, everything — because it had to be. 

“I wish you would get married,” she said, “and let 
me live with you.” 

With hands thrust deep in his pockets, he regarded 
her critically. She was very likely, he thought, to 
solve the problem of a home for herself. So far as 
he was concerned, a soldier with extravagant tastes, 
and nothing beyond his pay to keep them up on, mar- 
riage was out of the question. 

“I am not a marrying sort,” he answered. “But 
you shan’t bury yourself in Wedgemere all your days. 
For the present, though, it is a good arrangement.” 

“It’s an awful wrench, breaking up the old home, 
Teddy,” she whispered. 

“Yes.” He nodded, and evaded the wistful eyes. 
“It’s beastly rough on you. Pity that civilisation up- 
set the universal law which turned the young out of 
the family nest to fend for itself as soon as it was 
able. It was a beneficent providence that clung to the 
rule for the male being. When one stands on one’s 
own feet these knocks hurt less.” 

“Yes,” she said. “I wish now I had struck out for 


84 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


myself. But it didn’t seem to matter. I never 
thought . . . ” 

“If only Mrs. Enfield were home,” she added pres- 
ently. “It’s the going among strangers — just now — I 
shrink from.” 

“Well, after all,” Teddy put in soothingly, “one can 
scarcely regard one’s own kin as strangers. The old 
boy has behaved very decently. I daresay you’ll find 
it all right.” 

Beatrice smiled drearily. She could not share her 
brother’s easy optimism. It was not from the uncle 
whom she knew she shrank, but from the unknown 
aunt and clergyman cousin, whose acquaintance she 
would make for the first time when in unexpected 
poverty she would enter the vicarage as a pensioner on 
their bounty. 


IX 



T3EATRICE arrived with her uncle at the vicarage 
in the evening. As a sort of anti-climax to the 
journey there was a long drive from the station to 
the house. It was not in local estimation considered 
long, but to the girl, accustomed to short distances, 
tired from the tedious journey, and numbed with the 
cold and an ever-increasing misery, the mile from the 
station seemed interminable. A pony carriage met 
them, driven by a youth of about seventeen, who com- 
bined the duties of groom and gardener and butler, 
and managed satisfactorily to himself to evade over- 
work by playing one amazing duty off against another. 
This estimable youth was known as Hurden. Among 
his equals the unnecessary preliminary letter was omit- 
ted, and the name thereby rendered more facile of ex- 
pression if less euphonic. Hurden was a dirty, lazy 
youth, whose general improvement was a matter of 
intense personal interest to Mrs. Ashleigh. 

Mrs. Ashleigh, a large, bright, efficient woman, with 
no especial breadth of outlook, but with an immense 
appreciation of the importance of her position as the 
wife of the vicar of the parish, and a laudable accept- 
ance of her responsibilities, welcomed her niece, as she 
would have welcomed anyone belonging to her hus- 
band’s family, particularly anyone who was afflicted 
with a new and very real sorrow, with open-hearted 
85 


86 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


kindliness, and a tactless show of cheerfulness, her 
idea of practical sympathy confining itself to the time- 
ly demonstration of the inevitable silver lining. Since 
Beatrice was in no mood to recognise a silver lining 
had such a thing been evident, her aunt’s determined 
effort to ignore any cause for grief accorded ill with 
her depression. She shrank within herself before the 
breezy welcome; and Mrs. Ashleigh, realising with- 
out understanding this absence of response, decided 
that the beautiful girl with the soft eyes and the sweet 
expression was in reality hard, and possibly needed the 
chastening sorrow which had overtaken her. Her son, 
however, coming in when the frugal Lenten meal was 
half-way through, formed an altogether different opin- 
ion. James Ashleigh was so greatly impressed with 
the stranger’s pallor and look of weary sadness that, 
rising after a hurried meal, he stood for a moment be- 
fore going out again and attentively scrutinised the 
white, tired face. 

“I think Miss Ashleigh should have a glass of wine, 
mother, and go to bed,” he said. 

Mrs. Ashleigh looked up surprised, and intercept- 
ing the glance of quickened interest which flashed un- 
expectedly from the saddened eyes, she asked with 
some abruptness: 

“Don’t you feel well?” 

“I am not unwell,” Beatrice answered. “And I 
don’t want anything. But I should like to go to bed. 
I am very tired.” 

Mrs. Ashleigh motioned to her son to ring the bell, 
and requested the servant who answered it to light 
the visitor to her room. It occurred to the young 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


87 


clergyman as he went out into the hall that it would 
have been only kind had his mother accompanied the 
girl upstairs herself. He stood with his hat in his 
hand and the hall door open, and waited for Beatrice 
to appear. She came out from the dining-room alone, 
the servant following and closing the door behind her. 

James Ashleigh struck a match and lighted one of 
the candles on the hall table. 

“I hope, you will feel rested to-morrow,” he said 
gravely, handing her candlestick to her. “You look 
very tired.” 

She smiled as she took the light from his hand with 
a word of thanks, and, standing beside him with the 
cold night air blowing the flame of the candle side- 
ways, she looked beyond him through the open door. 
A few yards away across the road she could see the 
church, and the light streaming softly through the 
chancel window and falling warmly upon a gleaming 
headstone in the churchyard. 

“Is there service — to-night?” she asked, surprised. 

Abruptly James smiled. It was a pleasant smile, 
and it lightened his face wonderfully and made it dis- 
tinctively attractive. 

“No — only choir practice.” 

“Oh! And do you have to go to that?” 

“I superintend generally,” he said, and looked 
faintly amused. “We are famed for our choir. Y°u 
will be able to judge on Sunday if I boast without 
reason.” 

He held out his hand with the quick, awkward ges- 
ture that characterised his movements, and which was 


88 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


due, Beatrice realised, to shyness, and wished her 
good-night. 

“Good-night,” she returned. “I shall think of you 
when I am in my room, training refractory village 
boys for the delectation of an unappreciative audience 
on Sunday.” 

“Oh, our congregation isn’t unappreciative,” he said, 
substituting the more suitable term for the one she 
had used with no conscious attempt at correction. 
“You will see by the way we all join in the singing 
how enthusiastic we are. Don’t stand in the cold,” 
he added, his hand on the door. “The air is very raw 
to-night.” 

She nodded, smiled, and turned to mount the stairs. 
Before she reached the landing she heard the hall door 
slam behind him, and then followed the clang of the 
garden gate, as the latch, forced by a strong, impa- 
tient hand, swung home again and rattled noisily back 
into the catch. 

The maid had gone on and turned up the gas in her 
bedroom, a somewhat cheerless room overlooking the 
churchyard. But a bright fire burned in the grate, 
and the curtains had been closely drawn, shutting out 
with the fog-laden atmosphere the soft glow from the 
painted windows, and the dark outline of the tall spire 
against the mist-veiled sky. 

When the maid left her Beatrice turned down the 
gas and drew the curtains back from the window and 
leaned with her arms on the broad sill and looked out. 
She was not inclined for sleep; the unusual happen- 
ings of the day made her strangely wakeful. She had 
sought her room solely from a desire for solitude. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


89 


Softly from across the road the sound of the organ 
reached her ears. She smiled to herself while she 
listened, and it flashed through her mind to wonder 
what her father would make of it if he could see her 
among these new and unfamiliar surroundings, a 
member of this household which he had affected to 
despise. 

“I suppose it is always like this,” she mused, put- 
ting up her hands and loosening the soft hair until it 
fell about her shoulders and framed her face in a halo 
of pale gold — “choir practices and services and the 
conversation limited to parochial matters. . . . And 
rigid fasting during Lent. ...” 

She glanced at the fire glowing on the hearth, and 
the sight of it, refuting her ungenerous criticism, 
caused her a sudden feeling of shame. However rig- 
orously self-denial was practised at the vicarage, it 
was clear that the duty of hospitality was not allowed 
to be crushed by it. They were well meaning, these 
new-found relations; they desired to be kind. 

She remained at the window until the music ceased ; 
then, still busy with her own sad thoughts, she watched 
the lights in the church extinguished one by one until 
complete darkness prevailed. A troop of boisterous 
choir boys tumbled out from a side door and scam- 
pered noisily round the churchyard before dispersing. 
Her cousin James came out after them and crossed 
the road and entered the vicarage gate. Then, under 
her window it seemed, a voice that sounded in her 
ears as the voice of some plaintive child-angel burst 
forth into song. The unexpected sound stirred her, 
and the words, plainly audible in the quiet night, fell 


90 


BEATRICE ASHLE IGH 

upon the silence with a sweet, shrill, indescribable 
pathos which moved her powerfully : 

“And how can we in exile drear 
Sing out, as they, sweet songs of home?” 

The words were from a hymn the choir had been 
practising for Sunday, and the voice belonged to little 
David Hopkins, the sweetest singer and most mis- 
chievous boy in Wedgemere. 

As the voice died away in the distance, the church 
clock chimed the half-hour after nine, striking with 
a harsh though musical insistence that seemed to set 
a seal of finality upon everything. Abruptly Beatrice 
moved, and, laying a hand on the curtains, pulled them 
quickly together, shutting out as before the cheerless 
atmosphere and the dark, tapering spire which, like a 
monster index finger, pointed ever upward. 

Beatrice slept ill, and was in consequence late for 
breakfast the following morning. Punctuality at the 
vicarage was an unwritten law. The bell rang at 
eight. Mistaking it for the dressing-bell, Beatrice did 
not hasten. Twice a maid was sent up with inquiries, 
and when finally she arrived downstairs she found 
everyone seated at table. Her own breakfast was, as 
Mrs. Ashleigh expressed it, “keeping warm” in a cov- 
ered dish before the hearth. Her cousin rose to fetch 
it for her. 

“Didn’t you sleep?” Mrs. Ashleigh asked, regarding 
her attentively as she took her seat. 

Beatrice, feeling that she was being rebuked for 
slothfulness, flushed warmly. 

“Not very well,” she answered. “The church clock 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


91 


disturbed me. And I’m afraid I mistook the break- 
fast for the dressing-bell. I forgot to ask at what 
hour you breakfasted. I am sorry to be late.” 

“We don’t have a dressing-bell,” Mrs. Ashleigh re- 
plied; “everyone is up, you see. What time did you 
breakfast at home?” 

“Half-past nine generally,” Beatrice answered. 
“But we weren’t very punctual.” 

“Half-past nine!” Her aunt looked horrified. 
“That leaves no morning,” she said; “you had no 
time to do anything.” 

“I expect,” James observed, cutting a slice of bread 
with the intention of toasting it for his cousin, “Miss 
Ashleigh worked her time in at the other end. Lon- 
don keeps different hours from the country, mother.” 

Beatrice turned to watch him as he knelt before the 
fire, holding the bread on a fork and screening his 
eyes from the flames with his hand. She liked James. 
If anything could make life tolerable in Wedgemere 
the society of her cousin might, she decided. He was 
the most sympathetic person she had met with so far. 

“I think Beatrice will have to accommodate her- 
self to our ways,” Mrs. Ashleigh said. “If we kept 
London hours here we should get nothing done. I 
am looking to you for quite a lot of help in the par- 
ish,” she added, turning directly to the girl. 

In this way Beatrice was given to understand that 
her aunt was resigned to the idea of receiving her into 
the family. It was the only allusion that was made 
in her hearing to the indefinite conditions of her visit. 

“You will find me disappointing, I’m afraid,” she 


92 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


replied, ‘‘but not unwilling. I have never done any 
work of that kind.” 

“So I understand.” 

Mrs. Ashleigh had disapproved of her brother-in- 
law entirely: most particularly she had disapproved 
of him in his paternal relationship; such men were 
unfitted for the responsibilities of fatherhood. She 
saw in his abrupt removal, in the stroke of destiny 
which brought his daughter under the vicarage roof 
and the influence of spiritual guidance, the hand of 
God stretched forth to gather this wanderer into the 
fold. 


X 


TDEATRICE was an enigma to Mrs. Ashleigh; she 
did not, as her aunt expressed it, seem to fit in 
anywhere ; even socially she gave little help. This last 
was a surprise to Mrs. Ashleigh, who had gathered 
that latterly the girl’s life had been given up to social 
pleasures. The wide difference in the interests of 
the associates she had mixed with compared with those 
of the people who frequented the vicarage was a point 
which Mrs. Ashleigh overlooked. 

Beatrice was not in touch with Wedgemere; and 
Wedgemere, with few exceptions, made no effort to 
get into contact. She was an enigma to the parish as 
well as to her aunt. Chief among her eccentricities 
was a defiance of the ordinary rules of convention: 
she refused to wear mourning. She had made the 
journey from London in a navy travelling-suit which 
in the gaslight Mrs. Ashleigh had mistaken for black. 
Later she remonstrated with the girl on the impropri- 
ety of wearing colours in the first days of her bereave- 
ment; and Beatrice, observing her in amazement, be- 
came aware that her aunt was attired in all the som- 
breness of one who mourns a near relation. 

“Father didn’t care about mourning,” she said. 
“He didn’t like any of those customs.” 

“But it is a sign of respect,” Mrs. Ashleigh urged. 

“That’s what he resented,” Beatrice explained — 
93 


94 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“advertised emotion. In his opinion one’s feelings 
didn’t need public expression, and the parade of af- 
fliction was simply objectionable. I wear the clothes 
he was accustomed to see me in because I know that 
would please him best.” 

“It looks odd,” Mrs. Ashleigh replied, and, meeting 
the steady gaze of the dark eyes, said nothing further. 
She stood a little in awe of her niece. 

“I don’t understand Beatrice,” she complained to 
her son. “She is hard and difficult. One cannot get 
into sympathy with her.” 

“We’ll be patient,” he said. “She is missing her 
father and her friends. We can’t expect to make up 
to her all at once for what she has lost. She’ll re- 
spond in time.” 

“But,” Mrs. Ashleigh insisted, “she is so unusual. 
It isn’t only in the matter of mourning — -though that 
is sufficiently peculiar, and excites comment in the par- 
ish. She brings her own strange ideas to bear upon 
everything. Only this morning; in decorating the altar 
vases, she threw aside the backs of the vases and ar- 
ranged the flowers as though she were decorating a 
drawing-room, and when I remonstrated with her on 
the unseemliness of it, she appeared quite annoyed. 
She asked if God prefers His flowers stiff why He 
doesn’t make them grow so.” 

Which James felt, though he did not say so, was 
something of a facer. 

“Before we can hope to get into touch with her we 
must bring her into closer touch with the life we lead,” 
he replied. 

Mrs. Ashleigh looked up at him doubtfully. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


95 


“I expect I am a little prejudiced,” she admitted, 
and sighed. 

He stooped suddenly and kissed her. 

“You have the kind heart,” was all he said. 

On Sunday at the midday meal, which was cold ac- 
cording to an invariable custom at the vicarage, James 
Ashleigh asked his cousin what she thought of the 
singing. 

“It was as good as anything I have heard,” she said. 

“Then I didn’t exaggerate?” 

“No. I confess I was astonished. That small boy 
with the blue eyes, and the confiding smile, has an ex- 
traordinary voice — so sweet and true. Who is he ?” 

“That is David Hopkins,” he answered; and the 
gravity of his voice, with the gravity of the expres- 
sion on the faces of her uncle and aunt, arrested Be- 
atrice’s attention. Had her question been indiscreet 
it could not have been received with greater serious- 
ness. 

“He has a good voice,” the vicar put in, breaking 
the silence which had followed upon James’ reply. 
“But he has no right to be singing in the choir; he is 
not yet christened.” 

His concern was so genuine that Beatrice, although 
she could not sympathise with his view, respected it 
none the less. 

“How comes it that a choir boy should have been 
overlooked?” she asked. 

“They are newcomers here,” the vicar explained. 
“Mr. Jennings indiscreetly admitted him to the choir 
on account of his voice before making proper in- 
quiries. James is preparing him for baptism now. 


96 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Being a case of what we term adult baptism, a certain 
amount of preparation is necessary.” 

Beatrice knew all about that ; her own case had been 
one of adult baptism. 

‘Til help you, if you like,” she said, with a smile. 
“I have taken a fancy to that little boy.” 

James looked up and caught the smile. 

“You will need to bear in mind that it takes very 
little kindness to spoil boys of that class,” he said. 

Beatrice showed surprise. 

“I wasn’t aware that humble origin made a dif- 
ference in the dispositions of children,” she said. 

“It is a matter of training rather than of origin,” 
he replied. “That class of boy is not disciplined to a 
particular code of honour. One has to have that con- 
tinually in mind in order to understand them.” 

Beatrice’s experience of boys was limited to her 
brothers and their friends. But it occurred to her as 
unfair to arrogate to any one class a monopoly of 
certain virtues. If one class benefits through training, 
there is a traditional honour that is common to all. 

“I believe you are mistaken,” she said. “I shall 
get to know your boys and endeavour to prove that 
you are wrong.” 

“It seems to me that you are inclined to be argu- 
mentative, Beatrice,” Mrs. Ashleigh observed. 

James caught the girl’s eye and smiled. 

“It will be a good thing if you do interest yourself 
in the boys,” he said. “No lady in the parish trou- 
bles about them. The girls get all the attention.” 

“Mr. Gervais looks after the choir boys,” Mrs. Ash- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


97 


leigh interposed. “I don’t think he would care to be 
interfered with.” 

Mr. Gervais was the assistant curate, a very high 
churchman, an ascetic, and a firm believer in himself 
and in his God. Beatrice had met him on the previous 
day. She did not like him, and she had a very strong 
persuasion that her dislike was reciprocated. 

“1 don’t see why Gervais should object,” remarked 
the vicar. “It isn’t as though his sister were interested 
in them. They laugh at her, I’m afraid.” 

“It would annoy me exceedingly if they were to 
laugh at me,” Beatrice said. 

He looked amused. 

“They have no abnormal sense of humour,” he re- 
sponded. “She is — a little eccentric; but a very ear- 
nest, good-hearted woman.” 

From which Beatrice gathered that Miss Gervais 
was an oddity. The parish was composed, it seerqed 
to her, of curious types. Possibly the country bred 
such people, or possibly they were peculiar to Wedge- 
mere; assuredly she had never met their like anywhere 
else. The only people who promised to be interesting, 
and were more of her own world, were the Lawrences, 
a sporting family, who owned the best house in 
Wedgemere, and spent their days, and occasionally 
their Sundays also, solely in pursuit of amusement. 
They were far from good church people; but were 
tolerated in the parish on account of their liberality. 
Mrs. Ashleigh disapproved of them, though she could 
not raise any personal objection, since they made up 
in charm for certain deficits, and invariably disarmed 


98 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


her when they met with an insistent graciousness of 
manner. 

They called early in the week, the visit being prin- 
cipally on Beatrice’s account. There was a daughter 
of about Beatrice’s age, and she came with her mother, 
a fresh, healthy specimen of English girlhood, with 
a keen love for outdoor life and animals and motor- 
cars, and very little knowledge of anything outside 
these interests. She got Beatrice to herself in a cor- 
ner, and sounded her diplomatically in regard to her 
tastes. She was manifestly uncertain as to Beatrice’s 
rightful element ; but an idea that it was not parochial 
gave her confidence to pursue her researches. 

“Do you ride?” she asked presently. “Oh, good!” 
she exclaimed, on her question being answered in the 
affirmative. “Then you must follow the hounds with 
me. We can always manage a mount. There isn’t a 
girl about here who does anything more spirited than 
attend Zenana meetings.” 

Beatrice looked mystified. 

“Whatever is a Zenana meeting?” she asked. 

“How nice of you not to know,” Enid Lawrence 
said, with a quiet laugh. “I’m not very clear myself 
— it’s a kind of Boorioboola-Gha, I imagine.” 

“I shall know more about it later,” Beatrice re- 
turned, smiling. “I am being broken in to parish 
work. It’s all new to me; but it’s interesting. My 
cousin wishes me to do some visiting ” 

“Not district work?” the other girl interrupted in 
amaze. 

“I am not to have a district — yet.” Beatrice looked 
openly amused. “A few pet cases only are to be 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


by 

turned over to me. It's a sort of special privilege. 
James thinks I shall find pleasure in it.” 

“And do you think so?” 

“I am doubtful. And I’m diffident about under- 
taking it; they’ll detect me at once for a fraud. Don’t 
you think it is amazing cheek for a worldly minded, 
uninformed person like myself to adventure in that 
way? They are old people too, some of them. It 
occurs to me that we take great liberties with the poor. 
I told James so; and he said the poor of the parish 
would resent it, and feel hurt, if they were over- 
looked. It is odd to me. One point I am firm upon ; 
I won’t take a class in the Sunday school. That is a 
great disappointment to my aunt. But my uncle sides 
with me. I am not to be urged to do anything against 
my wishes. He’s a dear.” 

“Yes. Everyone loves the vicar. There are one or 
two in the parish who also love the curate.” 

“Mr. Gervais?” Beatrice asked, surprised. 

“I didn’t mean Mr. Gervais; my remark referred to 
your cousin.” 

“Oh, James! That isn’t surprising; he’s so kind. 
And it’s a civilised instinct to cherish an infatuation 
for one’s pastor. I passed through that phase at six- 
teen. It’s — elevating.” 

“You must come and see me — soon,” Miss Law- 
rence observed. “I can give you local information 
which you won’t gather from other sources. The 
history of the entire parish is known to me. We’ve 
always lived here. Funny, isn’t it? One gets rusted 
into one’s hole when one never moves. Don’t take up 
too many parish duties — I have none; and I want to 


100 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


see something of you ... a lot, in fact I have a 
persuasion we are going to be friends.” 

Beatrice felt a touch of the same persuasion. There 
was a mixture of dash and frankness, a well-bred 
kindliness, an absence of pose with a disregard for 
criticism in this new acquaintance which was distinctly 
attractive. When she had taken her departure she 
remained fixed sharp and clear in Beatrice’s mind, as 
a good portrait sketch stands out, defined and arrest- 
ing, among a collection of neutral-toned prints. 


XI 


T T was two months later when Beatrice sat down to 
•*- reply to a characteristic letter from Mrs. Enfield, 
in which the latter urged her to go to them before or 
after Elbe’s wedding in May, and stay as long as was 
convenient to herself — altogether, if she could. 

“It must be appalling she wrote, heavily under- 
lining the word, “to live in a vicarage. I’ve always 
pitied clergymen’s daughters — particularly country 
clergy. The wives have only themselves to blame, but 
girls don’t choose their fathers’ professions. It is so 
selfish of clergymen to marry and have daughters; 
sons, of course, can get away. It is not the slightest 
use pretending that you like it; you are not in the 
least good, you know ; and it must be the last thing in 
dulness. ...” 

There followed gossiping references to acquaint- 
ances, and quite at the end she added : 

“Mr. Wilson is always inquiring after you. He 
seems to miss you tremendously. It is possible if you 
don’t come up certain of your friends will be for rus- 
ticating in the country.” 

Inexplicably this letter — a link in the broken chain 
of past events — depressed Beatrice. A more acute 
nostalgia seized her than anything she had felt be- 
fore. The whole tone of the letter breathed the gay, 
careless, pleasure-filled atmosphere of the old life, 

IOI 


102 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


with its selfish indulgences, its easy tolerance, its kind- 
ly insincerity. These things, which at one time had 
not always seemed quite worth while, appeared to her 
amazingly good viewed in the retrospect. What 
greater good did she do now — did anyone in Wedge- 
mere do — than she had done then, following only the 
path it pleased her to take? Mrs. Enfield was right; 
she did not fit in here. She was a stranger, among 
strange people, cut adrift from her friends. 

She sat with the letter in her lap and stared into the 
fire with thoughtful eyes, in which memory stirred 
insistently, clouding their expression with the intrud- 
ing of regrets. She was sick with hunger for the old 
life and the friends who belonged to the past. It was 
the old grievous lamentation expressed mutely in the 
language of the present : “My lovers and friends hast 
Thou put away from me, and hid mine acquaintance 
out of my sight.” 

Rousing herself presently, she started to answer the 
letter, writing on her knee with a fountain pen. 

“You are right,” she said; “I don’t like it here. But 
that’s my fault; and I have to try to cure myself of 
prejudices before I give in. Everyone is very kind. 
They all lead busy, useful lives. I am hoping to do 
the same in time. If I find I can make myself use- 
ful, I shall stay; if I am a failure, then of course I’ll 
give in. I have an idea I could earn my living as a 
milliner’s assistant. I know you will buy your hats 
of me if it comes to that. I can’t come up for the 
wedding; it’s too soon. I wonder what my aunt would 
think if I proposed it? She is attending a Girls’ 
Friendly this evening, and I am quite alone. My 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


103 


mourning is too recent for such dissipation. I believe 
they dance together — all girls! It sounds unexciting, 
but no doubt it is very jolly. Such simple pleasures 
seem to afford amusement here. Enjoyment, like so 
many things, is relative. Perhaps these people are 
right, and it is we who lose something in our lack of 
appreciation of simple things.” 

At which point an interruption occurred. Hurden 
entered in his capacity of butler, bearing a rather 
grimy notebook on a salver which he proffered with 
an air of dignified disdain. 

“The choir boys are round collectin’ for their cricket 
club, miss. They want to know if you will kindly 
give a trifle?” 

Beatrice examined the book. There were many 
entries in it for insignificant amounts, ranging from 
one penny to sixpence. The first page had been re- 
served for the more important names. 

“The vicar should have this first,” she said. 

“ ’E’s in ’is study, miss. ’Twasn’t likely I was 
goin’ to interrupt ’im for that.” 

“No,” she agreed. “Are the boys waiting?” 

“Yes, miss — two of ’em, in the ’all.” 

“I will take this to them myself,” she said. 

She carried the book to the study. The vicar, who 
was busy preparing his sermon, raised his head at 
sight of her and showed unmistakable surprise. Be- 
atrice met his gaze with questioning eyes, a little un- 
certain whether she did right to intrude; and, as 
though he read her doubt in her face, he welcomed her 
with a smile. 

“Am I wanted for anything?” he asked. 


104 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“You are busy,” she said, hovering on the threshold 
with the book in her hand. “Fm sorry. I ought not 
to have come. But the choir boys are collecting for 
their cricket club, and plainly you ought to head the 
list.” 

“Put me down for a shilling,” he said. “Or, since 
you have it there” — and he held out a hand — “give 
me the book.” 

“A shilling!” she objected. 

“Come, now,” he said, smiling. “What’s wrong 
with that?” 

“Shabby!” she murmured. “For the credit of the 
house, you must make it half a crown.” 

He laughed, and wrote in the little book as she 
directed. 

“There!” he said, and handed it back to her with 
the money. “I couldn’t afford to let you be my 
almoner on all occasions. We have many calls.” 

She stooped and imprinted a kiss on his forehead 
by way of thanks before retiring; and the vicar, who 
was growing very fond of his brother’s child, sat idly 
in his chair for some minutes after she had left him, 
gazing at the closed door, the lingering of a smile 
lighting the kindly features. 

Beatrice meanwhile was interviewing the captain 
and vice-captain in the hall. She produced a shilling 
from her own pocket and added it to the collection, 
which splendid munificence so won their admiration 
that they decided, upon leaving her, to confer on her 
the position of secretary to the club, an honour which 
she owed in some measure to the intelligent interest 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


105 


she betrayed in cricket, and the promise to attend a 
match sometime. 

When the boys had gone, she went back to the 
drawing-room and her letter; and shortly after it was 
finished James came in. He looked tired — so tired 
that Beatrice was moved to suggest that he should 
stretch himself out on the sofa. He laughed, and 
dropped into a chair opposite her. 

“Do I look so decrepit ?” he asked, and approached 
a strong, muscular hand to the fire. 

“You look fagged out,” she replied. “You’ve been 
on the go all day. I haven’t seen you except at meals. 
Is Percival shirking?” 

James’ eyes twinkled. Percival was Mr. Gervais. 
His cousin usually spoke of him in this manner when 
they two were alone. He was fairly accustomed to 
her flippancy. 

“I’ve just left him,” he replied. “He’s down with 
flu, and going to be pretty bad by the look of him. 
Miss Gervais wants to know if you will go to-morrow 
and read to old Narramore in her stead? She is nurs- 
ing her brother, and can’t get away.” 

“Read to old Narramore !” Beatrice echoed. “Read 
what? — the newspaper?” 

James suppressed a smile. 

“Miss Gervais reads the Bible to him, I believe ; but 
I don’t see that there need be any objection to your 
giving him a change. I daresay he’d enjoy it. You 
might find time for both.” 

“Rather an odd assortment, isn’t it?” she sug- 
gested. 


106 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“No — religion fits in everywhere; the daily news is 
not opposed to it — or shouldn’t be.” 

“Do you wish me to do this?” she asked, looking 
at him directly. 

James sat forward, nursing one knee between his 
hands, and observing her while he talked with inter- 
ested, gravely admiring eyes. The picture she made, 
sitting in the low chair in the glow of the firelight, 
clad in a simple black dress, open at the throat, and 
with a daring touch of colour to contradict the sug- 
gestion of mourning introduced by the addition of 
crimson silk stockings, was pleasing and arresting. 
James had never before beheld anyone so gracious 
and so alluringly feminine as this suddenly found girl 
cousin of his. He liked to see her in his home. 

“I’d like you to dt> it,” he replied; “but it isn’t my 
request. There is something I want you to undertake 
more urgently — to undertake entirely, not merely for 
an occasion.” 

“What is that?” she asked, in non-committal tones, 
and this time she did not look at him, but stared into 
the flames instead. 

“Well,” he said, still studying her with unconscious 
intentness, “I’m not altogether sure that you’ll care 
about it. And yet I am persuaded that you could give 
more real help than anyone else. It is a very sad home 
— just two old people, Rogers and his wife; and the 
wife is dying — piecemeal, as one might say. It’s gan- 
grene.” 

Beatrice shuddered. The man, watching her un- 
ceasingly, saw the look of repulsion, almost of dis- 
gust, which swept across her face. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


107 


“You wouldn’t like it,” he said quickly. “It’s too 
painful.” 

His disappointment was manifest, though he strove 
to hide it. He had felt all along that it was rather 
much to expect from her; but he believed in her thor- 
oughly — in her womanly compassion, her ready sym- 
pathy; and he managed somehow, without ever ex- 
pressing it, to convey this belief in her to her mind. 

“Tell me more,” she said briefly. 

“They are devoted, the old couple,” he said. “When 
his wife dies old Rogers will be broken-hearted. It 
will always be a sad case, you see, for anyone who in- 
terests himself actively in it. The old wife cannot 
live long; it’s a matter of months now. She might go 
to the infirmary, but she has a horror of it, and the 
old man won’t let her go. He does everything for 
her, and waits on her untiringly. The district nurse, 
of course, goes in every day. There is nothing wanted 
in the little home, except hope and brightness. It was 
just that need which, when I realised it, made me think 
of you.” 

“Oh, James!” she said, and turned towards him a 
face so sad in its expression that he read her thought 
even before she uttered it. “How can I, who am un- 
happy myself, bring hope and brightness to others?” 

“It’s just what you can do,” he answered, with as- 
surance. “Because you are unhappy, you will under- 
stand their sorrow, and because of their sorrow you 
will conceal your own. I know you have that in you 
. . . oh ! I know so well.” 

“You are asking a very difficult thing of me,” she 
said. 


108 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“If it were easy it would not be so well worth the 
doing/ ’ he replied. “Anyone can he kind when the 
kindness calls for no effort. The majority of us do 
little helpful things, that stand for nothing but what 
they signify in themselves, daily; but the things which 
count are the things which call for sacrifice. I am 
asking now one of those big things of you. I know it 
is in you to do it. I believe you will do it.” 

Suddenly Beatrice smiled. 

“You haven’t left me a loophole,” she said. “I 
wonder if you realise what extraordinary persuasive 
powers you possess? I’ll do it — yes. I’ll call there 
to-morrow on my way to old Narramore.” 

“I’m glad,” he said simply. “I felt somehow you 
would. And I know what pleasure it will give the 
old people to see someone young and sweet. A little 
human sympathy is a sermon without words.” 

Beatrice looked round quickly. His speech, re- 
minding her of something she had it in her mind to 
say to him, suggested further that the opportunity for 
saying it had presented itself and could never be bet- 
ter timed. 

“I want you,” she said abruptly, “to do something 
for me.” 

“Yes!” he said, and seemed amused at this rapid 
demand for repayment in kind. “I think you are 
placing me now in the position of having no loop- 
hole.” 

“I don’t know,” she replied, and looked at him a 
little doubtfully. His eyes met hers fully — brown, 
pleasant, friendly eyes, with a hint of a smile in them 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


109 


which encouraged her to proceed. “I want you to get 
your sermons up,” she said. 

Beatrice did not expect her cousin to take this ad- 
vice unmoved. She knew that a simple, earnest man 
like James would shrink from the suggestion of striv- 
ing after effect. To use one’s talents worthily, and to 
the full of one’s power, would scarcely, in his opinion, 
be consistent with rhetorical effort that at best must 
be artificial, or with the studied turning of his phrases 
with a view solely to their literary improvement. 
James never wrote out his sermons; and, since he was 
neither a fluent nor an effective speaker, the result, as 
Beatrice recognised, was inadequate to the quite ex- 
cellent material of which his sermons were composed. 
He stiffened and changed colour. 

“I shouldn’t care to do that,” he said. 

“I daresay not. I don’t exactly care for sick-rooms 
and the miseries of other people. But we can’t al- 
ways order things as we would have them. I think if 
you took additional pains to present your sermons ef- 
fectively you might do more in the way of gaining at- 
tention. Write them out and learn them and declaim 
them aloud. I’ll help you, if you’ll let me. You could 
reach many hearts that you don’t even touch, if you 
would only take the necessary trouble. See how 
crowded the church is when Mr. Gervais preaches. 
They don’t know it, but the people flock to listen to 
his oratory, not to his actual words. It’s all effect, 
really; nothing remains when he has ceased speaking. 
He has never preached a sermon since I’ve been here 
that has been half as good as one of yours — if one 
takes subject-matter alone into consideration. But 


110 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


you can’t fill the church as he can. Yet every time I 
hear you I carry away something which makes the 
world seem sweeter and life better worth the while.” 

“Isn’t that better than oratory?” he asked, flushing. 

“I should carry that something away still, and pos- 
sibly other things, if you declaimed them with a richer 
eloquence; and other people, who listen now inatten- 
tively, would carry more away likewise. It’s worth it, 
James. Think it over.” 

To James’ infinite relief, perhaps also to Beatrice’s, 
Mrs. Ashleigh entered the room at this moment, bring- 
ing with her an odour of dust and smoke and paraffin, 
the result of a badly trimmed lamp in the schoolroom, 
which had smoked vilely and charged the atmosphere 
with smuts. Some of the smuts had settled upon her 
face and, refusing to be dislodged by her handker- 
chief, stuck there tenaciously, as the reek of oil clung 
to her garments. Despite which discomforts, and the 
fact that she showed unmistakable signs of weariness, 
she appeared surprisingly cheerful and seemed to have 
enjoyed herself. Odd, Beatrice reflected as she was 
moved often to reflect, that people could derive amuse- 
ment from such things. 


XII 


T AMES informed his cousin on the following day 
** that he would like to accompany her to the 
Rogers' cottage. Since he had other things to attend 
to during the early afternoon, he suggested a meet- 
ing-place; and punctually to the minute he was on the 
spot, where Beatrice, knowing that his time was of 
value, was already arrived. 

She observed him critically as he approached, walk- 
ing rapidly against the wind, his head lowered and ad- 
vanced to meet it, rather as a woman meets the wind, 
having regard to her headwear. The skirts of his long 
coat blew out on either side of him like sails loosely 
spread. And yet there was nothing absurd in his ap- 
pearance. James was an athletic, well-built man; the 
virility of his physical development was borne out in 
the quiet strength of his face. Beatrice came out from 
her shelter behind a wall and joined him. 

“Petticoats are a nuisance in weather like this, 
aren’t they, Jimmy ?” she said. 

He laughed. 

“They act as a restraining influence,” he replied. “I 
hope you haven't been waiting. The wind is very 
keen.” 

“Not long. And you are hard on time anyway. 
I’m feeling nervous, James. It is rather like paying 
a visit to the dentist.” 


in 


112 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“You’ll get over that,” he returned, “when we ar- 
rive there. They are a dear, grateful old couple. 
You’ll like them.” 

It was a poor little cottage in a mean street, with 
nothing of beauty about it, and a curious flatness in 
the quality of the air such as one experiences usually 
only in big cities. The street was narrow, and the 
houses, narrow too and gardenless, ranged in sad- 
looking uniformity on either side, seeming to watch 
one another with furtive suspicion from behind the 
torn and, for the greater part, dirty window curtains, 
which were dirty of necessity rather than negligence; 
to wash them would have meant their final destruc- 
tion. Beatrice saw the dirt and blamed the house- 
wives; James, who knew something of the lives and 
circumstances of these poorer parishioners, saw the 
dirt also, but, understanding better, was not offended 
at the sight. 

There was no one in the street when they entered 
it. The day was raw and uninviting, and windows 
and doors were jealously closed against the wind. 
Beatrice detected no watching face at any window, 
nevertheless every now and again a door opened and 
some slatternly woman, conscious of hasty and futile 
attempts to tidy herself, appeared in the dingy aper- 
ture, and nodded with shy brusqueness in response to 
James’ salutation. Occasionally a woman appeared 
with a child in her arms, and sometimes with one or 
more clinging about her skirts. They all, Beatrice 
observed on looking back, remained at their doors 
watchfully, or joined one another and stood grouped 
on the pavement staring after James and herself. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


113 


'‘Why do they watch us?” she asked. 

“Do you mind?” He smiled down at her in some 
amusement. “It’s you they are interested in — the 
stranger. They are doubtless curious to see where 
we are going. They are very jealous in this street of 
any favour shown to a neighbour.” 

“I suppose it is wrong of me,” Beatrice said, “but 
these people repel me. I can’t work up any enthusiasm 
for them, James.” 

“You don’t know them,” he answered — “that’s why. 
You don’t understand them. I admit the externals 
are not prepossessing. One has to inure oneself to 
dirt and ungraciousness and other evils before one can 
know these people. To know them is to understand 
them; and to understand them thoroughly is to like 
them.” 

“I hope you are not looking to me to grow to love 
them?” she said. 

“No. Except for the Rogers, who live in that 
smaller cottage right at the end, I don’t wish you to 
have anything to do with this street. It’s altogether 
too rough and sordid for you. This is the slum of 
the parish, for which the tanyard is mainly respon- 
sible. They are birds of passage mostly. I want you 
to work only among the natives.” 

It was a relief to Beatrice to find that the Rogers’ 
cottage looked out on one side at least upon green 
fields. A path through the fields, which James pointed 
out, would take her to the village, so that if she pre- 
ferred the longer route she could avoid the way by 
which they had come. 

“But you will never evade the watchful eye of Mrs. 


114 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Morey whether you come by the fields or by the road,” 
he added, as he returned the determined greeting of 
a big, red-faced woman, who came to the entrance of 
the cottage adjoining the Rogers’ which, like its neigh- 
bour, was smaller and older than the double row of 
brick houses that had sprung up of recent years, and 
from which these two stood detached with an air of 
refusing to acknowledge any connection with these 
newer residences. 

Mrs. Morey was a woman who might have been 
any age rather than forty, which were all the years she 
reckoned. She was toothless, save for one abnormally 
long discoloured relict which, protruding in assertive 
isolation from the centre of the upper jaw, overlay 
the lower lip after the manner of some rare antique 
cunningly arranged for its better display to the public 
gaze. Someone had once suggested to Mrs. Morey 
a visit to the dentist for the improvement of her per- 
sonal appearance by the removal of this unlovely me- 
mento of the past; but Mrs. Morey had quashed this 
idea. “Not me,” she had said. “I likes to show it. 
Folks can’t say I’ve got no teeth so long as they see 
that there one.” 

Mrs. Morey, having watched the visitors admitted 
to the Rogers’ cottage, re-entered her own dwelling, 
grumbling and curious, and stood at the little front 
window and peeped over the blind for the double pur- 
pose of observing their coming forth, and of timing 
the length of their visit. The attention her neighbours 
received from the vicarage was a subject of complaint 
with her, as the delicacies which arrived from the 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


115 


vicarage kitchen for the invalid’s consumption were 
a source of envy. 

When she followed her cousin into the living-room 
of the cottage, and looked round with wondering eyes 
upon the orderly little room which was the centre of 
this tiny home, Beatrice observed the invalid, whose 
bed had been brought in from the bedroom, and re- 
mained there placed before the window because it was 
more cheerful like, propped up with pillows busily 
making a shirt for her old man; while the old man 
himself sat before the fire, taking snuff, and reading 
to her from an old paper book the while she sewed. 
These occupations being interrupted by the visitors’ 
entry, the old man, in a flutter of awkward pleasure, 
placed chairs for the newcomers, and, there being but 
two, hovered restlessly about the foot of the bed, re- 
iterating at intervals his expressions of welcome. 

“Didn’ expect to see you to-day, sir. Caw bless 
thee heart! no; — did us, Ester? Pleased to see you 
always, sir — an’ the young lady.” 

The old woman was manifestly more interested in 
Beatrice, and openly curious in regard to her. When 
James, standing by the bedside, introduced his cousin, 
the thin hand clasped the girl’s, and the dim eyes 
raised to the fair young face grew yet more dim be- 
hind their rising tears. 

“ ’Tis Mr. Ashleigh’s young lady, for sure,” she 
said. 

Smiling, James turned aside and addressed himself 
to the husband, leaving Beatrice, flushed and embar- 
rassed, yet inwardly amused, to correct the error ; no 


116 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


easy matter; the old lady, as James had surmised, was 
not very ready to be convinced. 

“Not his young lady?” she ejaculated, in keen dis- 
appointment. “Aw, my dear, I never seed anyone be- 
fore that was half good enough for Mr. Ashleigh; 
but you’m as beautiful as an angel. You be made for 
en. Ees, sure. Don’t tell me. I knows. I could see 
it in his eye when he looked at you.” 

Beatrice gave it up, and sought to divert the old 
woman’s attention by admiring her sewing. 

“Ay. I’m leavin’ en well provided,” she explained. 
“ ’E won’t ’ave no one to sew for en when I’m gone; 
so I reckon to make en enough to last his time. ’Twon’t 
be long, ’e says, once I’m took. Nigh on fifty year 
we’ve been together. . . . It’s hard after all those 
years when it comes to parting. But, if it wasn’t for 
’im, I’d be glad to go. I suffers cruel at times.” 

“I know,” Beatrice answered. “It’s wonderful to 
me to see you sitting up so brave and busy and bright. 
Mr. Ashleigh told me how wonderful you were. I 
think he thought you could give me a lesson in pa- 
tience. I’m not brave over misfortune.” 

“You’m young, you see,” the invalid replied. 
“ ’Tisn’t fitty that the young should suffer. I’m up- 
wards of seventy, an’ that makes a diff’ence. ’Tis 
amost time these old bones were under the sods. 
You’m at the beginning o’ life.” 

The old eyes fixed themselves wistfully on the girl’s 
face. 

“I wish you’d ’low you was Mr. Ashleigh’ s young 
lady,” she said. “Don’t seem I can see ’im marryin’ 
anyone else.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


117 


Beatrice, meeting the anxious questioning of the 
searching eyes, shook her head. 

“You mustn’t think that,” she said. “I’m his 
cousin. It’s almost, you see, like brother and sister.” 

Mrs. Rogers, still manifestly unconvinced but per- 
suaded that the young lady intended to remain close 
upon the subject, fell back on the exhaustless topic of 
her own happy marriage, and the children she had 
been blessed with and had since buried. It was clear 
to Beatrice that death to this optimistic soul represent- 
ed a continuation of the present existence under im- 
proved conditions, and the reuniting of broken ties. 
Her purgatory lay in the brief period of separation 
from her old man ; but she was as confident of meet- 
ing him later “up there” as she was that night must 
follow upon day, because it always did. 

Beatrice left the cottage with this simple idea of 
theology engaging her attention. She wondered if 
James taught that childlike form of belief to the less 
imaginative of his flock. It savoured of the Christian 
Science idea of passing on into another room. Strange 
what diverse opinions people held of the great puzzle 
which is beyond the solution of mankind, 

“I think, James,” she said, and shot a demure look 
at him from under her lashes, “it will be less mis- 
leading if you leave me to work my district alone. The 
curate does not usually escort the parish worker on her 
rounds. Wedgemere has its traditions, like most 
places; and it is disconcerting when one blunders up 
against them unawares.” 

“I’m awfully sorry,” he said. “But no one regards 


118 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Mrs. Rogers. She rides that hobby to death. You 
aren’t vexed, really?” 

“Not in the least. But I didn’t convince her, you 
know.” 

“No,” he returned; “you couldn’t, because she 
doesn’t wish to be convinced. We separate here — 
not,” and he laughed quietly, “from motives of pru- 
dence; but I have a sick woman in this street to visit.” 

“I should have imagined,” Beatrice answered, “that 
that was the doctor’s affair.” 

“Some people,” he replied, with the amused expres- 
sion she so often called up upon his face, “like to see 
the parson too.” 

“The rich man sends for his lawyer,” she retorted, 
“and the poor man for the clergy. There is an im- 
portance surrounding certain events which may not be 
ignored. Be patient with my levity, Jim, and direct 
me on my way.” 

James pointed to the path across the fields. 

“You can’t miss it,” he said; “you have only to fol- 
low that. Keep straight ahead, and you come out by 
Tozer’s, the grocer’s shop in the Fore Street. Pros- 
pect Lane, where Narramore lives, is on your right 
as you go towards the church.” 

He opened the gate of the field for her, and stood 
for a moment beside it, looking after her as she walked 
rapidly along the narrow path. To follow the in- 
structions was simple so long as it was a matter of 
keeping straight forward ; but the fields were bisected 
by a lane, and beyond the lane the footpath across the 
further field reached a point midway where it bifur- 
cated abruptly and led in opposite directions. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


119 


Beatrice paused by the stile leading into the lane and 
looked about her. Which path, she wondered, might 
be considered to lead straight ahead ? It was a point 
which it seemed to her could be decided either way 
according to which direction one faced. While she 
rested there a girl approached, walking leisurely along 
the Jane, carrying a trailing piece of ivy in her bare 
hand. The girl in the road looked up, and seeing the 
other girl at the stile paused involuntarily and stared 
at the beautiful face with surprised and unconscious 
rudeness. 

“Can you,” Beatrice asked on an impulse, “tell me 
which of these paths leads to the town?” 

“That there one” the girl answered, and pointed to 
the left. ‘Til go with you to the next field and put 
you in the way.” 

“But that’s taking you out of your road,” Beatrice 
protested. 

“I han’t doin’ nothin’, only mooching round.” 

Beatrice glanced swiftly at the speaker. The girl 
was about her own age. She was pretty, with a rough, 
wind-blown comeliness that suggested days spent in 
the open air — the vagabondage of sunshine and rain 
and open hedgerows associated with the gipsy life. 
She was, as a matter of fact, the daughter of a small 
farmer, and worked on the farm like a man when it 
pleased her to work at all. Her hands were red and 
coarse. She wore no hat over her rough hair; and 
the eyes looking out from under this straggling thatch 
had the same half-bold, half-shy glance one sees in 
the eyes of a robin. Beatrice made up her mind 


120 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


quickly, and, crossing the stile, stepped down into the 
road and stood beside this obliging young person. 

“It’s very kind of you,” she said. 

“You’m welcome,” the girl answered, and opened 
the gate of the field to save the other the necessity of 
climbing the stile. 


XIII 


T T’S pretty here,” Beatrice said, and stood for a 
•*- moment to look about her across the undulating 
fields to the shadowy outline of the distant hills that, 
cloud-like, melted into the grey of the wind-swept sky. 
“It must be very beautiful in summer. Where does 
the other path lead?’’ 

“To Merton,” her conductor answered. “It takes 
you over the railway that runs through the coppice 
yonder. You can amost see the level crossing from 
here. It was this side the crossing that Mr. Toller’s 
son was killed last year. Mr. Toller is the postmas- 
ter.” 

“Killed!” Beatrice repeated. “Do you mean that 
he was run over ?” 

“Yes. Went off ’is ’ead, some say, and wandered 
there in the night — walked across the fields, same as 
you and me might, an’ put ’isself in front of the ex- 
press. My father ’elped to pick en up. Twenty-one, 
’e was.” 

“Oh!” Beatrice ejaculated, and looked through the 
bare tracery of the trees towards the level way. The 
calm, unemotional manner in which the girl described 
this tragic happening heightened, rather than depre- 
ciated from, its dramatic effect. “How terrible!” she 
said. 

“Yes, ’twas. Smashed to bits, ’e was. They ’ad to 
121 


122 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


gather it up in a sack an’ bury it where it was. Me 
an’ some others went down to see what us could. It 
was all scatted about for ever so far.” 

Beatrice shivered and hurried on. The bald, yet 
vivid, word-painting conveyed to her imagination a 
realistic picture of this unnecessary tragedy whereby 
some suffering human soul had deliberately destroyed 
the gift of life. In the case of one demented the act 
is understandable, but, apart from that explanation, 
the life must be very hopeless that can seek violent 
dissolution. 

“There!” said the girl, when they came to the end 
of the second field. “You’m all right now. This road 
leads into the Fore Street. You come out by the 
grocer’s shop where the spirits is looking out at the 
corner.” 

She stopped and leaned on the stile and regarded 
Beatrice with keen, bright, admiring eyes. 

“You’m Miss Ashleigh, han’t you?” she said. “I 
heard tell you was come to the vicarage.” 

“Why, yes,” Beatrice said. “I think in return you 
should tell me your name.” 

“I’m Jenny Rossiter,” the other replied, and made 
a motion with her head in the direction from whence 
she had come. “I lives to Barton’s Farm. Mr. Ash- 
leigh knows me all right.” 

Beatrice smiled a farewell. 

“I’m very much obliged to you for directing me,” 
she said. “Good afternoon, and thank you.” 

“Good afternoon, miss. You’m very welcome.” 

The girl remained at the ^ate, as James Ashleigh 
had remained at the other gate, and looked after the 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


123 


graceful, well-tailored figure which, despite the quiet 
fashion of its clothes, presented by comparison with 
Wedgemere a modishness that provoked Jenny’s envy, 
as it had provoked the criticism of the women gath- 
ered upon the pavement in the street through which 
she had passed that afternoon with James. The last 
thing that Beatrice would have conceived as likely 
was that these people should take a particular interest 
in the fashion of her garments. 

Arrived at the grocer’s shop, which her cousin as 
well as her late companion had emphasised as a land- 
mark, the latter’s cryptic reference to watchful spirits 
which h?d puzzled her at the time of its utterance be- 
came clear, a small side window being given exclu- 
sively to the exhibition of Gilbey’s wines and spirits, 
which, arranged for their better display in seeming 
insecurity with red and gilded necks leaning towards 
the glass, did in reality convey an impression of fur- 
tive peeping which made the girl’s remark peculiarly 
adroit. Beatrice turned the corner, and kept on until 
she came to Prospect Lane, which, if its title were not 
intentionally sarcastic, must have been named before 
the introduction of bricks and mortar had blocked out 
all possibility of any prospect whatsoever. 

Old Narramore lived with a widower son and a 
lumpish granddaughter who was called Lizer, and 
who, having finished with school, kept house for her 
father and grandfather, and did it very badly. Lizer 
was inefficient in most things, but she was willing and 
good-tempered, two qualities which in certain opinions 
more than counterbalance a deficit in the virtue that 
is next in order to godliness. The latter virtue old 


124 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Narramore was fully persuaded was his peculiar in- 
heritance. He was inclined to be insistent on his claim 
to this virtue, as though doubtful of its obviousness 
to the ordinary observer. He had impressed it on 
Miss Gervais so frequently that she had grown to re- 
gard him as quite a holy old person, and would not 
have thought of suggesting reading secular matter to 
him. She was even diffident about offering to read 
items of local interest from the Parish Magazine. 
Beatrice, ignorant of this commendable piety, had 
armed herself with the daily newspaper and the cur- 
rent number of Punch. She carried these in her hand 
when the amazed Lizer opened the door to her and 
showed her into the airless, stuffy little room where 
old Narramore sat, nursing the head of his stick as 
though he proposed going walking, while a round 
table, from which the white cloth which graced it 
usually for the saving of trouble had been removed 
and a red one substituted in honour of the expected 
visitor, was drawn close to the fire for the reader’s 
greater comfort and convenience. On the red cloth 
reposed the Family Bible. 

Mr. Narramore was expecting Miss Gervais. Miss 
Gervais’ weekly visits were an institution. He had 
come through custom to regard them much in the 
same light in which a business man would regard the 
services of a paid secretary : he felt under no obliga- 
tion ; he was not particularly appreciative, but he would 
have felt injured had she for any reason discontinued 
her visits. 

When Lizer threw open the door, and flattened 
herself against the wall with an effacing deference she 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


125 


was not wont to show Miss Gervais, who usually let 
herself in, old Narramore brought his head round with 
a jerk, and catching sight of the radiant figure against 
the dingy background of drab-coloured wall, so ut- 
terly dissimilar to any other woman he had ever seen, 
yet gracious and girlish withal, he betrayed almost as 
great astonishment as his granddaughter had shown, 
and an almost equal deference. 

Groaning, and with difficulty, he rose out of his chair 
and stood leaning on his stick and blinking at her. 
Miss Gervais would have begged him not to rise had 
he ever attempted to do so in her presence, but it did 
not occur to Beatrice to discourage his effort at po- 
liteness; the less one exercises the joints, the more 
readily they stiffen; therefore it is mistaken kindness 
to encourage sedentary habits. 

“Good afternoon,” she said, and held out her hand. 

Being unversed in the etiquette of the district vis- 
itor, Beatrice obeyed her own impulses in the difficult 
question of procedure. Since impulse when dictated 
by a gentle nature is a reliable guide, she acted wisely 
in yielding to it. Mr. Narramore took the small hand, 
and, manifestly uncertain what to do with it, dropped 
it again, and with an even greater display of distress 
than he had shown in rising, lowered himself into his 
high-backed chair, from which stuffy haven he re- 
garded her with mixed emotions and unqualified ad- 
miration. 

Beatrice felt it necessary to explain herself. 

“Miss Gervais asked me to call and express her 
regret that she is unable to come to-day for the read- 
ing. Mr. Gervais is ill with influenza, and she can- 


126 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


not leave him. If you don’t mind having me for a 
substitute, I shall be very pleased to read in her stead. 
I brought the newspaper with me, and a copy of 
Punch. There are some good jokes in Punch. I’ll 
leave it behind so that you can look at the pictures.” 

The old man chuckled. 

“Tom’ll like they,” he said. “Tom’s my son, mum. 
He’s all for jokes, Tom is. Miss Gervais reads from 
the ’Oly Word. I always reckons ’pon reading from 
the Book Thursdays.” 

“Why, so you shall, if you prefer it,” Beatrice re- 
plied cheerfully as she sat down. “Wouldn’t you 
like to have a little worldly news first?” 

“As you please, mum,” Mr. Narramore answered 
guardedly, and fixed his wistful old gaze upon the copy 
of Punch. 

Beatrice pushed the Family Bible aside and spread 
her papers in its stead, and started tentatively upon 
the leading article. Mr. Narramore made no pre- 
tence of being interested; he was in certain respects 
embarrassingly honest. 

“Be there no murders?” he interrupted her to in- 
quire. And when she admitted that there was an 
account of some crime, and sought to dissuade him 
from his wish for sanguinary details by describing it 
as a painful and gruesome story, his face brightened 
with anticipatory enjoyment as he urged her to, “Read 
en up, mum — read en up. A good stirrin’ murder 
case is what I likes.” 

There was, she decided, some reason for the re- 
stricted literary taste of a district visitor. 

Beatrice read the murder case with conscientious 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


127 


thoroughness; parts of the evidence she was obliged 
to read more than once. Old Narramore gloated over 
the details of the crime with an enjoyment that was 
unquestionable. When the case was disposed of, be- 
ing left in the curiosity-provoking stage of an ad- 
journment, he asked if there was not any further 
police court news. Beatrice, having searched the sheet 
for other evidence of the evil in human nature, and 
finding little more to whet the old man’s lust for hor- 
rors, turned with relief to the brighter pages of Punch 
Punch as a wit was a failure. If Mr. Narramore had 
ever appreciated a joke it was not of the quality which 
is issued from io Bouverie Street. He was not 
amused, and he made no effort to appear so. 

“Tom’ll like that there,” was his sole comment. 

“ ’E’s a great one for jokes, Tom is.” 

Tom, Beatrice gathered from the old man’s ram- 
bling confidences, was an unbeliever, and quite hard- 
ened in his scepticism and rather proud of his atheisti- 
cal opinions. In an oddly inconsistent way old Narra- 
more appeared rather proud himself of his son’s un- 
orthodox views. 

“ ’E’s up an’ says to Mr. Ashleigh one day, when 
Mr. Ashleigh was in tellin’ us ’bout heaven, ‘Not 
meanin’ to be disrespectful, sir, I don’t believe a word 
of what you’ve been sayin’,’ he says. Mr. Ashleigh 
didn’ seem to mind much. ‘All right, Tom,’ ’e says, 
pleasant like, ‘you wait an’ see.’ Ay, I says to Tom, 
you wait, I says, till you gets t’other side; then you’ll 
get a shock. An’ so ’e will.” 

The old man spoke with the conviction of one to 
whom t’other side was a kind of glorified court of 


128 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


justice, where the prosecuting counsel, in wings in- 
stead of a gown, confounded each comer with a de- 
tailed account of his individual and separate sins, and 
where prompt and relentless punishment followed im- 
mediately upon the indictment. He had no fears for 
himself in respect to t'other side, being firmly im- 
pressed with the belief that he had a free pass to 
heaven. But he was nervous about his dissolution. 

“I do ’ope I’ll go off easy like,” he said, and looked 
at Beatrice questioningly as though he sought reas- 
surance on this point. “I han’t afeard of t’other side, 
but I’m mortal scared o’ dying. I’m all right for 
t’other side, I be. I’m a good man, an’ always lived 
sober — never been what you might call drunk, an’ 
never been in jail. ’Tisn’ many can say that, mum.” 

“That must be an immense satisfaction to you,” 
Beatrice said gravely. 

“Ay,” the old man replied; and if there was a 
tinge of regret in his tones for the joys which so- 
briety had denied him, there sounded also a ring of 
complacency. “It gives one a comfortable sort o’ 
feelin’ when one comes to think about one’s end. If 
I was only sure now as I’d go off easy like, I’d feel 
all right.” 

It had grown too dark for reading. Beatrice might 
have made that an excuse for taking her leave; but 
inexplicably the old man’s egotistical garrulity inter- 
ested her. She endeavoured to soothe his very evi- 
dent nervousness regarding his end, and almost per- 
suaded him into believing that one who had lived so 
regular a life, and reached so ripe an age, would cross 
over t’other side quite easily in his sleep. He was 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


129 


manifestly comforted. When she rose to go, and 
stood for a moment looking down on the seamed and 
thoughtful face in the glow of the firelight, she saw 
that it wore a more tranquil expression, while the old 
complacent gleam of the good man conscious of his 
worth had crept back into his eyes. A quiet con- 
science is a valuable possession when one comes to 
the evening of life, even if one has found it a dull 
companion earlier along the journey. 

While she stood looking down at the old man the 
outer door opened noisily, and a big bass voice, which 
seemed to fill not only the narrow passage but the 
entire dwelling, shouted cheerfully for illumination. 

“Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lizer!” 
chanted the irreverent voice. 

“That’s Tom,” said the old man, and shook his 
head disapprovingly. “ ’E thinks Miss Gervais is here. 
Tom’s set ’is face agin the church. ’E’ll get a shock, 
’e will, one day.” 

Whispering in the passage without succeeded, and 
then a heavy step going on tiptoe past the door, fol- 
lowed by the scarcely lighter footfall of Lizer, who, 
during the whispered conference, had given her par- 
ent information which reduced his cheerfully aggres- 
sive mood to a shamefaced desire to escape obser- 
vation. 

Beatrice emerged into the passage to find a smoking 
paraffin lamp alight on a bracket against the wall, 
and the frowsy Lizer waiting near the entrance to 
show her out. The master of the house had disap- 
peared. 


XIV 


r I 'HE indisposition of Mr. Gervais was brief ; there- 
fore Beatrice’s acquaintance with the Narramore 
menage had no opportunity for development; Miss 
Gervais, like her brother, being intensely jealous of 
any interference in her particular department. Bea- 
trice was aware of this jealousy, was aware that Mr. 
Gervais resented her popularity with the choir boys. 
She was now secretary to the cricket team, and the 
important-looking long green bag, in one end of which 
a large rent appealed mutely for attention which it 
promptly received on arrival at the vicarage, had been 
transferred from the care of Mr. Gervais to her 
charge. 

“They suspected, I think, that I might let my Bible 
class have the use of it,” he said, in explanation. 

“I’m afraid the new secretary gained the position 
through bribery,” the vicar remarked. 

Beatrice protested with a laugh. 

“I don’t think that altogether nice of you,” she 
said. “I’ve an idea that that half-crown is weighing 
on your mind.” 

“It has ceased to weigh on my pocket at any rate,” 
he answered. 

But he was pleased that she should take an interest 
in anything, even in the choir boys. He was always 
hoping that she would become reconciled to the 
130 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


131 


changes in her life, and grow to regard the new con- 
ditions favourably. She had fallen into place more 
readily than had been anticipated. In Mrs. Ashleigh’s 
opinion, if it were not for the undesirable influence 
of the Lawrences and the frivolous distractions which 
they offered, Beatrice would settle down into the niche 
which, having no daughter of her own, had hitherto 
remained vacant, and which she appeared quite well 
qualified to fill. But the Lawrences were a link with 
the old life, and it was very apparent to Mrs. Ash- 
leigh that her niece derived more pleasure from their 
society than from that of the quite worthy, if less 
enlivening, people who frequented the vicarage. Bea- 
trice never appeared wholly at her ease with these peo- 
ple; they remained an insoluble drab mystery to her. 

Drabest and dullest among them was the curate's 
sister, a narrow-minded little woman, with an inces- 
sant giggle and an awkward habit of jerking her 
shoulders when she talked. She was untidy in ap- 
pearance, and her clothes conveyed, as her complexion 
did, the suggestion that they had been shut away from 
the light and air. 

“It seems so funny,” she remarked one evening to 
Beatrice, with the inevitable giggle, “to be interested 
in boys; they are so rude. My brother says it re- 
quires a man to manage them. I suppose you will 
take a boys’ class in the Sunday school?” 

“No,” Beatrice answered. “I haven’t any aptitude 
for teaching.” 

“Oh, but it’s so easy!” Miss Gervais assured her. 
“We have books with the lessons set for us. There 
is no difficulty about it at all.” 


132 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“That’s quite a clever idea,” Beatrice returned. 
“The books would fine it all down so. If I taught 
I should prefer to do without them. But my sphere 
of usefulness doesn’t lie in that direction. I have 
never been inside a Sunday school in my life.” 

Miss Gervais’ amazement at this admission was 
so genuine that Beatrice could not help laughing. The 
narrowing to mere pinpricks of the pupils of Miss 
Gervais’ light eyes, a peculiarity which she had ob- 
served also in the brother’s eyes, betrayed, besides 
amazement, aversion. It was evident that Miss Ger- 
vais did not like the vicar’s niece, that her arrival 
at the vicarage spoilt things for her. Even in the 
matter of old Narramore, though this service had been 
undertaken at her request, the approval Beatrice had 
won from the old man, who in his enthusiasm had 
not been tactful when discussing her visit with the 
curate’s sister, was a further vexation. Miss Gervais 
never divulged any part of that interview with old 
Narramore, during which he had insistently inquired 
whether the young lady who had come in to read to 
him was not a Real Lady, and, upon Miss Gervais’ 
acknowledgment that she was, had replied with un- 
flattering emphasis : “I knowed it. I knowed that at 
once. You can always tell her sort.” 

Miss Gervais turned and made an appeal to James. 

“Can’t you persuade her to help in the Sunday 
school?” she asked. 

Beatrice looked round quickly. 

“I didn’t know you were there,” she said. 

“Oh, I’ve been here some while,” he answered, as 
he came forward and joined them. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


133 


Observing his outward indifference; observing also 
Miss Gervais’ coy glances, her shy, self-conscious air, 
and too evident desire to ingratiate, Beatrice found 
herself wondering whether James were as innocent of 
his fascination as he appeared. Miss Gervais was 
so obviously in love with him, and he seemed so en- 
tirely unaware. 

“You ought to persuade Miss Ashleigh to take a 
class; we are so short handed,” she persisted. 

James ranged himself unexpectedly on his cousin’s 
side. 

“She’s such a busy person,” he replied. “Besides 
the work we find for her she discovers innumerable 
duties for herself. She is getting each one of us in 
hand. I don’t think we can spare her to the Sunday 
school just yet.” 

Beatrice suddenly laughed. That was the only 
reference James had made to her remarks about his 
sermons. Had it not been for something in his look 
and intonation she might not have caught the refer- 
ence even then. 

“He means,” she explained, taking note of Miss 
Gervais’ uncomprehending expression, “that I have 
taken him in hand, and so haven’t time for other 
boys.” 

Miss Gervais’ wooden reception of this flippancy 
moved James to rescue the conversation from the 
danger of personalities and direct it into safer channels. 

“How limited these specialised people become,” 
Beatrice remarked to him later when Miss Gervais 
and her brother had left. They had been supping 
at the vicarage, and left early as a convalescent pre- 


134 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGII 


caution. “I hope you will never be so swathed in 
your profession, Jim, that you won’t be able to breathe 
any broader atmosphere. They are not human, those 
two.” 

“You are a little prejudiced,” he said. “You don’t 
try to understand them.” 

Beatrice laughed wickedly. 

“I rather fancy I understand her at least a lot bet- 
ter than you do,” she retorted. “To quote old Narra- 
more’s warning to his son, ‘You wait and see. You’ll 
get a shock one day.’ ” 

She stretched her arms above her head, stifling a 
yawn. 

“Heavens! how tired these people make me!” 

She and James were alone together in the drawing- 
room, sitting before the dying fire. Beatrice leaned 
back in a corner of the sofa and fell into a thoughtful 
mood, her brows puckered, her eyes on the fire which 
was getting low, but which no one replenished be- 
cause Mrs. Ashleigh considered it wasteful to build 
up a big fire after a certain hour. If Beatrice com- 
plained of feeling chilly her aunt suggested a shawl, 
and remarked on the unwisdom of changing into a 
thin dress in the evening. Beatrice’s simple black 
frock and the audacious crimson stockings were an 
offence to Mrs. Ashleigh. 

Beatrice thrust the red stockings now nearer the 
fire, and bringing her eyes back to her cousin’s face, 
surprised him looking at her with such grave intent- 
ness that she lifted inquiring brows. James removed 
his gaze and became instantly more alert. 

“Little Hopkins is to be christened to-morrow,” he 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


135 


said. Then he laughed. “You'll accuse me next of 
not being able to keep clear of shop.” 

“I like that boy,” Beatrice said. “He brought 
me the club funds this morning, and handed them 
over with the manner of one making a gift. When 
I proposed giving a receipt, he replied off-handedly : 
'That’s all right, m’m ; you’m secretary and treasurer, 
you know.' I’ve a good mind to stand godmother to 
him.” 

James looked at her in surprise. 

“I thought — I understood you regarded baptism in 
the light of an empty form,” he said. 

“And that disqualifies me, eh?” 

“Well, yes; I think so.” 

“Why don’t you attempt to convert me ?” she asked. 

James reddened. y 

“You’ll hear the call one day,” he replied quietly, 
and looked away from her mocking face. 

“You are promising me a shock like Tom Narra- 
more is threatened with,” she said. 

“No,” he answered. “I believe you are nearer the 
truth than you realise.” 

“The truth!” she repeated, smiling faintly. “That 
is just what one cannot determine — the truth. One 
has ideas, but one cannot be sure. And there is such 
a complexity of opinion; it confuses. It’s a case of 
many echoes. Religion is a voice which reaches the 
heart; the creeds and doctrines, wherewith men have 
sought to confuse religion, are merely echoes which 
bewilder the understanding.” 

“There is no bewilderment,” he replied, “if one fol- 
lows God’s Word. Our Lord gave us the creed. That 


136 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


is not an echo; it is The Voice. Religion is the 
Word.” 

She shook her head, not so much in disagreement 
as admitting the uselessness of argument. 

“It is just as one views things,” she said. “To me 
religion is an ideal which one fixes in the mind and 
endeavours conscientiously to live up to. It is the 
little pocket edition of religion which people carry 
about with them that I cannot get on with. It’s not 
big enough to fit its subject. Whether there is a 
future life I do not know; neither does anyone, al- 
though many assert they do.” 

“Well, of course,” James answered quietly, “the 
whole question rests on belief in the Bible. If you 
discredit God’s Word, there is no evidence of a future 
life, nor of anything else that is not purely material. 
In m; case — in the case, I hope, of the majority — 
the Bible, the chronicle of the life and teachings of 
our Lord, is unquestionable. The Word of God testi- 
fies to the Truth.” 

“That’s faith,” she insisted, “not knowledge.” 

“That’s according how you look at it,” he said. “In 
my opinion, we have knowledge with faith; it is you 
who are unenlightened.” 

She smiled gravely. 

“I can’t catch hold of your idea,” she said. “I’ve 
been brought up to think of the Bible as a laborious 
compilation of legends and hearsay histories of primi- 
tive peoples, a few of whom thought in advance of 
their time, and whose thoughts have lived after them 
as what is worthy to live usually survives. But there 
is much that has survived too long. It has ceased to 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


137 


convince, and becomes ridiculous. The story of the 
creation — the miracles. . . . Faith would require to 
be blind to reason before one believed these things.” 

“One has to accept much without understanding; 
and parts of the Bible are pure allegory; a literal 
interpretation is impossible. The human mind is in- 
capable of grasping these things. But we have our 
Lord’s example and commands. We must either obey 
or disobey, believe or deny.” 

“And to deny, from the theologians’ point of view, 
means the death of the soul?” 

“The soul is in God’s hands,” James answered, with 
grave earnestness. “No man can claim to know what 
His will is. Scepticism is a part of the age. It’s an 
age of freedom. Men and women want to be free — 
free to act and think as they like — free from religion.” 

“Not free from religion,” Beatrice objected — “re- 
ligion is a part of ourselves — it’s the spiritual element 
in man — free from the creeds, the different doctrines. 
It’s the intolerance of doctrine that offends — the dis- 
credit which one church throws on the teaching of the 
rest. You can none of you be altogether right, even 
if none of you are altogether wrong. It is like dif- 
ferent members of a family disputing as to the correct 
way in which to revere their parent. It’s absurd, you 
see — it’s mischievous.” 

James’ eyes saddened. She had dragged an ugly 
truth into the light, and it hurt him to have to face it. 

“So long as the church is divided against itself, 
so long as one denomination wars against another, 
the scoffer will ever find an opening for attack,” he 
said. “You are right, unfortunately. Being merely 


138 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


human, we cannot all think alike, but we could at least 
respect one another’s opinions. There are a dozen 
different kinds of Christianity fighting against each 
other. God forgive us! This civil war in Christ’s 
Church does incalculable harm. But though it hin- 
ders the work, it cannot stop it ; for it is God’s work, 
and so it is bound to succeed.” 

“I wonder!” Beatrice sat forward and stared at 
the dull embers and reflected awhile. “Voltaire wrote 
that, ‘Dunces are the founders of all religions, men 
of wit founders of heresies, men of understanding 
laugh at both.’ ” 

She looked round quickly and detected the pain in 
James’ face, and regretted having said that. 

“That’s one man’s opinion based on his own crooked 
outlook on life,” James said. 

“Yes,” she allowed. “That’s intolerance too — the 
intolerance of the sceptic.” 

He got up and stood over her, very grave, very 
earnest, almost, it seemed to her, appealing. 

“Do not be hardened in your unbelief,” he said. 
“Keep an open mind, and the light will flow in.” 

“I do keep an open mind,” she said. “I believe in 
the God in man — in the triumph of good over evil — 
in the power and the divinity of good. For the rest 
I am quite content to leave the mystery of the future 
to the future’s unveiling. I am fully convinced in 
my own mind that you are no nearer the truth than I.” 


XV 


A T the back of Beatrice's mind a conviction held 
^ that neither her uncle nor James had any inten- 
tion of attacking her unbelief, or of seeking directly 
to influence her thought. This, she felt, was from no 
want of confidence in the unassailable strength of 
their position, but was the result of a settled belief 
in the efficacy of prayer and example, and a perfect 
faith in the power of God to win to Himself any soul 
that walked in the shade of doubt. That was their 
belief. She realised that they respected honest doubt 
as she respected their quite honest conviction. She 
felt that they were sincere, these earnest simple souls 
who believed without questioning this enigmatic faith, 
so incomprehensible to the doubter’s inquiring mind. 
In return for their consideration, their patient and 
helpful tolerance, she adapted herself as far as it lay 
in her power to their mode of living, not only in re- 
gard to the social work of the parish, but in the matter 
of religious observance. In a letter which she wrote 
later to Charlie she stated that she was making up 
for the defection of the past years by a double at- 
tendance at church. Also she helped to decorate the 
altar ; possibly in time she would undertake the brasses 
and wash the fair linen. 

“Come down in the vac,” she finished, “and behold 
for yourself.” 

To which Charlie replied with laconic eloquence: 
139 


140 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“I knew it. All right; I’ll come. I feel curious. 
What’s James like?” 

Beatrice laughed over this question, and in her next 
letter made a point of answering it. 

“James is very near perfection,” she wrote. 

James was, as a matter of fact, regarded in the 
parish as near to perfection as a man can attain to. 
Mr. Gervais was respected, and the old vicar was be- 
loved; but James had a worshipful following, par- 
ticularly among the old and sick. This was not sur- 
prising, since wherever there was sadness he carried 
such a wealth of cheery optimism, of almost womanly 
sympathy, that he seldom visited a home without leav- 
ing it the brighter for his presence. Old eyes turned 
to him always with a smiling welcome, and looked 
after him with regret when he went away. He might 
pardonably, Beatrice reflected, have grown vain. That 
he was not vain was a further proof of solid worth. 

Many things astonished her in connection with her 
cousin. Conditions which would have appealed to her 
as unmanly in other men, which she could not have 
conceived her own brothers fulfilling, appeared suit- 
able as undertaken by James. He fitted in. In no 
circumstance did she see him at a disadvantage; even 
on the occasion of a mothers’ meeting, which she at- 
tended because Mrs. Ashleigh was of the opinion that 
it would make an agreeable change for her, and which 
James attended because she asked him to see her 
through. 

“You need not go unless you wish,” Mrs. Ashleigh 
said. “I proposed it thinking you might find it amus- 
ing. I used to at your age.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


141 


“My dear mother,” James put in, “you do still.” 

It was then Beatrice proffered her request. 

“Do you ever attend mothers’ meetings, Jim?” she 
asked. 

He laughed, and admitted that he did occasionally. 

“Then come to-morrow, and help me nurse the 
babies.” 

“There won’t be many babies present,” Mrs. Ash- 
leigh replied, pausing in her occupation of sorting 
magazines to look reprovingly at her niece. “I wish 
you would check yourself of that foolish habit of ab- 
breviating names. I dislike hearing you address your 
cousin as Jim.” 

Beatrice flushed. She felt annoyed. Her aunt’s 
habit of going bluntly for her point was disconcert- 
ing. But catching James’ eye, she detected in it a 
gleam of such quiet amusement that her resentment 
lessened. After all, the objection was reasonable; a 
person should be called by the name in which he is 
baptized. 

The mothers’ meeting was about the dullest form 
of entertainment at which Beatrice had assisted so far. 
It was an amazingly obstetric gathering. And the 
limitless capacity for swallowing tea was almost as 
remarkable as the tireless -energy which characterised 
the discussion of the delicate and intimate matters of 
greatest domestic interest. The frankness with which 
symptoms were described was embarrassing to any- 
one unversed in these things. The act of suffering, 
like the relation of these physical distresses, seemed 
to confer a sort of distinction. The air was redolent 
of buns and hot tea and soap and cheap dyes — all 


142 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


good things in their way, but not pleasant to be shut 
in with ; though, as a matter of fact, no one appeared 
to be inconvenienced except Beatrice, who quite early 
in the afternoon developed a headache. And James, 
though he kept his word as far as looking in at the 
meeting went, failed her. He did not stay. He was 
called elsewhere, and only dropped in to inform her 
that he could not attend as promised. 

He made his way to her as quickly as he could; 
but he wa r detained many times during his progress 
through the room. Beatrice, seated on a form with a 
baby on her knee, observed his interrupted advance 
with interest; and when, having gained her side, he 
stood looking down at her and at the baby in her 
arms, she met his friendly eyes with a deprecating 
smile. 

'This isn’t my job,” she said. 

"No!” he returned. "You appear to be getting on 
famously.” 

"I’m merely posing,” she replied, and glanced at the 
child with a vexed little laugh. "I picked out this one 
because it was daintier than the rest — and cleaner. 
I’m snobbish, you see. Look at Aunt Marion — nurs- 
ing that horrid little imbecile, and delighting in all 
the children. I can’t get up a show of interest even.” 

James’ glance followed hers to where his mother 
sat surrounded with slobbering babies, amusing them 
and the women near her ; and his face, turned towards 
the homely picture, brightened. 

"She’s an old hand at it,” he observed. 

"There is more in it than that,” she responded. 
"She’s interested in them.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


143 


“It would be odd if she wasn’t, seeing she is a 
mother herself,” he replied. “You look a bit tired. 
I would offer to take that baby from you, only I can’t 
stay. I looked in because I knew you would be ex- 
pecting me. But I have been sent for to christen a 
poor little mite whose brief earthly pilgrimage is nearly 
over. They don’t expect it to live through the night.” 

“To christen it!” she echoed. Involuntarily she 
looked down at the healthy little form in her arms and 
gathered it closer to her. “Don’t you think it is a 
pity to worry it when it is dying, James?” 

“Worry it?” he repeated, his earnest eyes on her 
face. “Christ wants each of His little ones to bear 
His sign.” 

“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Mr. Ashleigh?” ex- 
claimed Miss Gervais’ high-pitched voice at his elbow 
with the accompanying giggle. “I’ve a nice cup over 
here that I made expressly for you.” 

“I can’t stay,” he answered. “I’m sorry; but I 
really must not spare another minute. It’s awfully 
kind of you to have bothered.” 

“But one cup of tea . . .” she urged. 

“Drink it for me,” he pleaded. “And come and 
steer me through the room so that I can get away 
quickly.” 

Beatrice smiled to herself as she watched Miss 
Gervais in ready response to this request conduct him 
to the exit. James had a facile way of gaining his 
point. 

The headache developed as the afternoon wore on; 
but she stayed till the finish, and drove back with her 
aunt in the pony carriage which met them, not so much 


144 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


for their convenience as for purposes of transport. It 
had made the journey earlier with heavy baskets, 
which it carried back now considerably lighter but 
quite as cumbersome. They occupied most of the 
room. Mrs. Ashleigh sat on one of these because 
the seat was unavailable. The sole seating space was 
given up to Beatrice, who drove, Hurden being de- 
posed and told off for porterage work. 

“I’m always glad to get rid of him,” Mrs. Ash- 
leigh observed. “He’s not a comfortable person to 
have close to one. I must really tell Mary to inform 
him that he must wash his ears. Drive quickly, Bea- 
trice. It will be a rush as it is to be in time for 
service.” 

Beatrice, to whom the day of the week was thus 
unexpectedly recalled, frowned with irritation at be- 
ing reminded of an unwelcome fact. 

“I had forgotten it was church night,” she said, 
urging the reluctant pony to a slightly smarter pace. 
“I think, if you don’t mind, I’ll stay at home this 
evening.” 

“Aren’t you well?” asked Mrs. Ashleigh quickly. 

Only indisposition excused in Mrs. Ashleigh’ s 
opinion any slackness in attendance at church. Bea- 
trice had, during the months she had been at the vicar- 
age, conscientiously endeavoured to meet her rela- 
tions’ views in this matter; but to-day her endurance 
had reached its limit. 

“I’m tired and headachy,” she returned wearily. 

“But it isn’t any distance to walk. When I am 
really tired, I find church the most restful place.” 

“Do you?” Beatrice’s tone expressed wonderment. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


145 


“It doesn’t rest me. One has to stand up when one 
would rather remain seated, and kneel when one isn’t 
inclined towards kneeling. I just want to curl up on 
the sofa all the evening.” 

“I suppose,” Mrs. Ashleigh observed, with a laud- 
able attempt at sympathetic apprehension, “it is be- 
cause you aren’t used to this sort of thing. I am so 
accustomed to it that it doesn’t tire my brain, only 
my feet ; and fortunately they are large and can 
stand it.” 

Beatrice was not pleased with her triumph when 
she had won it. She felt, although nothing further 
was said, that her decision met with disfavour. Mrs. 
Ashleigh expressed surprise when she came down- 
stairs after having changed her dress; and remarked 
on the change which she appeared to consider un- 
necessary. 

“I wonder you troubled when you are so tired,” she 
said. 

“But,” Beatrice returned, surprised, “it is so much 
more comfortable to get into fresh things.” 

It was a relief to be at last alone. When the hall 
door closed behind her aunt, and shortly afterwards 
the church bell ceased to ring, she settled herself on 
a sofa with a book Enid Lawrence had lent her, and 
tried to get away in mind at least from immediate 
things. And there, when he got back from church, 
James found her. She had not seen him since the 
afternoon; he had not been in for supper. There 
was nothing remarkable in that; he frequently missed 
his meals, or took them at odd hours. He went direct 
to the drawing-room on entering, and apnroached the 


146 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


sofa. Beatrice put down her book, and stirred lazily 
without getting up. James regarded her attentively. 

“I looked over to your seat this evening,” he said, 
“and missed you.” 

“That’s rather an obvious remark, James, since I 
wasn’t there,” she returned, smiling. 

“I wondered,” he said. “I felt — anxious.” 

“Good gracious !” She sat up straighter and 
frowned at him and laughed. “All this because I 
stayed away from service!” 

“I thought perhaps this afternoon had knocked you 
up,” he said. “The room was close.” 

“It was. It was also an irritating mixture of scents. 
But I can endure more than you give me credit for. 
I was lazy, that’s all. Tell me about the christening. 
Is the poor little baby dead?” 

“No,” he answered, his face taking on a look of 
pleased interest. “I intended to tell you about that. 
It was a most wonderful thing. As I was in the act 
of making the Sign on the little forehead a great 
change came over the tiny face — I can’t explain it; 
it seemed just to light up. I fetched the doctor to it 
later, and he said it was a most unexpected turn. He 
believes now it will pull through.” 

He was looking at her with eyes that were eager 
and glad and expectant. Beatrice met their clear gaze, 
smiling a little maliciously. 

“Cold-water shock,” she returned, damping his glad- 
ness. “One hears of these things. There isn’t any- 
thing miraculous about it.” 

He turned away and crossed to the fire. 

“I’m glad it’s going to live, though. I’ve been 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 147 

feeling quite depressed about it. What did you 
christen it?” 

“Beatrice,” he answered, without turning round. 

“Beatrice!” She showed surprise. “Who gave it 
that name?” 

“I did. No one had thought of a name, and that 
occurred to me. Do you mind?” 

“No,” she replied. “But it wouldn’t alter the case 
if I did. You are an amazing person, James.” 

“I believed she was dying,” he explained simply, 
“and — I wished her to bear that name straight back 
to God unsoiled.” 

“Ah!” she said softly. 

She got up and crossed the room and stood beside 
him. 

“I have been inconsiderate,” she said. “I have 
vexed you. James, I am a horrid person.” 

For a space he looked down at her without speak- 
ing, faintly amused ; the shadow had left his face. 

“I think you are rather nice,” he said then; whereat 
they laughed. 


XVI 


r T A HE cold of winter which had overstepped its limits 
did not so much glide into summer through the 
intermediate passage of the spring as leap over that 
pleasing neutral zone, making up for its laggard going 
by its hurried mode of egress. Life passed so evenly at 
the vicarage, with days so filled and yet so uneventful, 
that the changing of the months was unremarked by 
Beatrice, who felt that she had lived years rather than 
months in Wedgemere. The old life with her father 
was as a dream which faded with her reluctant wak- 
ing, as another dream had faded, and left her dissatis- 
fied and lonely amid the uncongenial realities of exist- 
ence shorn of romance. The fairest and most satis- 
fying quality in life is its romance: denude the liver 
of all else and leave with him this appreciation, and 
he may still enjoy. 

With the warmer days, with the unfolding of sum- 
mer, the bursting into leaf of trees and the blossom- 
ing of flowers, the beauty of the country gripped Bea- 
trice and added a new pleasure to her life. Also the 
fine weather found her busier. She arranged, and 
sometimes attended, her team’s cricket matches, set- 
tled disputes between the boys, and organised meet- 
ings. And she had now quite a number of houses on 
her visiting list — cases in which James had solicited 
her help; and one or two she had undertaken on her 
148 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


149 


own account because of her interest in the people, or 
because they demanded, as Mrs. Morey did in a con- 
tentious spirit, to know why other folk should receive 
all the attention. Mrs. Morey was exacting, and pos- 
sessed of a jealous temperament; but there was a 
rugged honesty about her which Beatrice liked. 

“You go in there twice,” she complained, with a 
nod of her head in the direction of the Rogers’ cot- 
tage, “to every once you come in yere.” 

‘'Yes,” Beatrice admitted. “But she is so depend- 
ent on people visiting her; she can’t get about like 
you.” 

“Gettin’ about isn’t everything,” Mrs. Morey con- 
tended. 

“It enables you to go and see your neighbours, 
doesn’t it?” 

“Neighbours!” Mrs. Morey’s voice was one note 
of intense scorn. She made an expressive gesture that 
indicated and dismissed in the same movement the long 
narrow street with its row of uniform dwellings. “I 
don’t call them neighbours — livers-by, that’s what they 
be. I keep myself to myself. Mis’ Rogers is the only 
one I visits; an’ I only go in there because ’er’s so 
dependent, and ’er man’s a feckless fool. I’m prom- 
ised to lay ’er out when ’er time comes. ’T won’t be 
long now, I reckon. ’Er foot dropped off yesterday. 
The old man buried it in the garden in a pudding basin 
with a second basin atop, so that when ’er’s dead it 
can be put in the coffin along with ’er ; then all of ’er’ll 
be buried together like. ’E studies ’er winderful.” 

And Beatrice, who at one time would have shrunk 
from, and felt sickened by these details, listened with 


150 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


feelings alternating between pained sympathy and a 
wondering admiration for this example of tender love. 
In the possession of a love which had borne the burden 
of nearly half a century, and which was as strong in 
sickness as in health and even more patient, the dying 
woman enjoyed a priceless treasure. 

This realising other people’s lives, their sorrows with 
their more rare and less enduring happiness, was a 
new experience for her, an experience which widened 
the sympathies, and diverted her mind from its pre- 
occupation with her private griefs. 

On leaving the Rogers’ cottage, where she was now 
a regular and welcome visitor, Beatrice came out upon 
Enid Lawrence driving alone in a two-seater car. The 
car stopped at sight of her, and Beatrice got in. 

“Doing my district, you see?” she said. 

The other girl nodded. 

“Overdoing it, aren’t you?” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“People say so — a few — the spiteful ones. They 
say you are courting the curate.” 

“Percival ?” Beatrice asked. 

“No; your cousin.” 

“Oh, James!” She emitted a little laugh, and was 
silent for a space. Then she asked: “Do you think 
I should make a good clergyman’s wife?” 

“Not particularly. It isn’t your metier. You know 
you look absurdly incongruous going into these cot- 
tages — something like Greuze’s ‘La Laitierre/ who 
certainly never got beyond posing as selling milk.” 

“You think I’m posing?” 


BEATEICE ASHLEIGH 


151 


“No; I didn’t mean that. But it wears that appear- 
ance. You are too smart somehow in the role.” 

“Smart!” Beatrice laughed and looked at her neat 
serge costume. 

“Oh, I know you’re all right,” Enid returned, laugh- 
ing too. “It’s your tailor. You make the rest of us 
look countrified. Wedgemere has a fashion of its 
own, the principal virtue of which is steadfastness. 
When tight skirts came in, it ignored them. But the 
tight skirt is nearly done; and when our garments 
widen then Wedgemere will be in advance of fashion.” 

“I think I rather admire that spirit in Wedgemere,” 
Beatrice returned. “Fashion, after all, isn’t of vital 
importance. I want to cultivate that idea, because, 
you see, I’ve got to.” 

“Otherwise you wouldn’t.” 

“Otherwise I wouldn’t.” 

“Have you finished your district for to-day?” Enid 
asked, as she turned the corner. “Because if so come 
back and have tea with me.” 

“I’d like to, but I have a meeting on at five.” 

“A meeting of what?” 

“The choir cricket team. We have to arrange a 
fixture for Saturday. I’m afraid I must be there.” 

“Bother! Well, come to lunch to-morrow and spend 
the afternoon. If it wasn’t for a certain happy vein 
of frivolity in your composition I’d have qualms about 
your future. You take your duties so seriously, you 
Teally might be qualifying.” 

“For what?” 

“The position of a clergyman’s wife.” 


152 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Beatrice turned her head slowly and looked at the 
speaker. 

“I wish you wouldn’t say those things,” she said — 
“even in jest.” 

“I’m not jesting. I’m merely repeating local gos- 
sip. I don’t believe it myself. But you know what 
these country places are like.” 

“That’s just it,” Beatrice replied; “I don’t know 
anything about country places.” 

“Well, for the matter of that,” Enid returned, “the 
big towns are pretty much the same, only one doesn’t 
hear the gossip. I think it is just as well to know 
what is being said, don’t you?” 

If Beatrice entertained any doubts on this point 
these resolved themselves later when Enid left her 
at the vicarage gate and drove off in a whirl of dust 
that quickly hid her from view, and as quickly sub- 
sided again, powdering the evergreens in the gardens 
of the square about the church. As Beatrice entered 
the vicarage gate the front door opened and James 
came forth. Absurd though she knew it to be, she 
felt her colour rising at sight of him; an odd em- 
barrassment seized her, which was all the more dis- 
concerting because it was so utterly without cause; 
she had never felt self-conscious in her cousin’s pres- 
ence before. James noticed nothing. If he saw her 
heightened colour it would never have occurred to him 
to connect it with himself. He appeared pleased to 
see her. 

“Hallo!” he said. “You back! I’m just off to the 
workhouse. Will you come?” 

She shook her head. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


153 


“I’ve my meeting at five.” 

“Well, walk part of the way with me,” he urged. 

“I’m tired,” she replied untruthfully, and passed 
him on the steps and went indoors. 

He looked after her, a little perplexed and hesi- 
tating, seeming half inclined to follow her into the 
house; then abruptly he ran down the steps, went out 
through the gate, and pursued his solitary way to the 
union in a thoughtful mood. 

When they met again at supper, Beatrice had got 
over her embarrassment. It had not lasted long, and 
had been the result of the sudden surprise of seeing 
him following upon Enid’s intelligence. On reflection, 
the whole matter occurred to her as rather trivial. 
She had an idea that if she repeated the gossip to 
James he would laugh. She decided to repeat it; she 
wanted to hear him laugh over it, wanted to laugh 
with him. When he came to her after supper, as he 
usually did on his free evenings with a request for 
music, she would tell him what was being said about 
them while he turned the music for her and leaned 
against the piano and joined in the songs. It would 
amuse him. They had both felt amusement at Mrs. 
Rogers’ insistence on the same subject. 

But James did not go to the drawing-room; he 
said something about his sermon, and disappeared 
in the direction of the study. The vicar was out; and 
Mrs. Ashleigh, armed with large scissors and a bale 
of unbleached calico, claimed Beatrice’s help in cut- 
ting out garments for the work-guild as soon as the 
table was cleared. It was tedious work; and the scis- 
sors hurt her hand; the smell of the calico, too, was 


154 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


unpleasant. But she made no complaint; experience 
had taught her the futility of protesting against any 
occupation with no more reasonable grounds for ob- 
jecting than disinclination for the work. These things 
had to be done. Later she would be expected to attend 
the work meeting and help to fashion the stuff into 
garments in accordance with the conventional muddle 
whereby one set of persons undertakes to work for 
another set with no sort of obligation whatever other 
than the law of custom which inevitably makes for 
the teaching of mutual dependence. Beatrice disliked 
this side of the life. Mrs. Ashleigh’s obsession for 
occupying all her time and that of other people worried 
her. The pleasure of being idle was a joy unknown 
to her aunt. 

She escaped as soon as possible, and slipped out 
through the side door into the garden. The air was 
warm, and a young moon shone brightly above the 
feathery darkness of the deodars on the lawn. Bea- 
trice drew in the scented air appreciatively, and ran 
down the grassy slope on to the tennis court. In one 
corner of the ground stood a rustic summer house, 
where Mrs. Ashleigh dispensed tea on the important 
occasions of the vicarage annual garden party. Bea- 
trice had believed that she was alone in the garden, 
but as she approached nearer to the summer house a 
voice issuing from the darkened interior so startled 
her that she paused abruptly in her advance and stood 
still on the lawn and listened. 

“Because you know something to a man’s discredit, 
is that any reason why you should blazon it abroad?” 

It was her cousin’s voice. At first she imagined 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


155 


he was speaking to someone; but, as the voice con- 
tinued in a level monotone without pausing for any 
response, she grasped that it was not addressing itself 
to an individual listener but to an imaginary congre- 
gation. James was declaiming the sermon he in- 
tended to preach on the forthcoming Sunday. 

Deliberately she remained still and listened, a little 
touched that he should have overcome his prejudices 
to the extent of following advice which had been dis- 
tasteful to him, even repellant; keenly critical also, 
and fully alive to certain defects in the style of his 
delivery. That he had taken to writing his sermons 
as she had suggested was known to her, but until she 
heard him she had not suspected that he had adopted 
the further advice to declaim them in advance for the 
improvement of his delivery. Realising, as she did, 
the effort it must have cost him to subdue his dislike 
to this course, it was natural that a thrill of gratified 
pleasure should move her, while she stood in the white 
light of the moon listening to the very excellent ser- 
mon which James preached in the little dark summer 
house in the far corner of the lawn. 

Whether instinct warned him that he had a listener, 
or whether, glancing inadvertently in her direction, 
he saw her standing there, Beatrice could not deter- 
mine; but she knew when he caught sight of her. 
He came to the door of the summer house and re- 
mained in the aperture, looking out at her where she 
stood bathed in moonlight, long black shadows stain- 
ing the ground behind her cast by the trees upon the 
mossy sward. The pale sheen of the moon was in 
her hair, and her face, white and dim of outline, 


156 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


looked bad at him, the eyes, darker shadows in their 
shadowy setting, lifted to his face. 

“I didn’t know you were here,” she said. “I never 
thought that — that ...” 

“That I would get my sermons up?” he suggested, 
with a faint smile. 

Beatrice moved forward quickly to his side. 

“You are a dear,” she said, and tucked her hand 
within his arm. 

James gazed down at her, and though the smile lin- 
gered in his eyes, the rest of his face was grave. 

“I don’t think the result justifies the endeavour,” 
he said. “The art of persuasive oratory is lacking in 
me. 

“Oh! you have the persuasive art all right,” she 
returned. “What you lack can be acquired. It’s a 
matter of elocution. I wish you would let me help.” 

“Where did you learn how to preach sermons?” he 
asked, with a touch of satire. 

Beatrice detected the satire and laughed softly. 

“By noticing how badly many clergymen do it,” 
she replied swiftly. 

James echoed her laugh. 

“At least,” he said, “you have had experience of 
that nature here. But you incline to exaggerate the 
importance of a sermon. It is not the sermon but 
the gathering together in prayer which is of highest 
spiritual significance. It is the act of uniting in prayer 
which brings us close to God.” 

“That depends upon the point of view, I imagine,” 
she replied. “Anyway, it is the sermon and not the 
prayers that one discusses. It’s what you say in the 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


157 


pulpit, James, that knocks chunks off one, as Charlie 
would express it. You hit out straight, and you get 
there every time/’ 

James’ only response was to draw her hand further 
through his arm and start to walk back to the house. 
And Beatrice, keeping pace with his leisurely step, and 
feeling his close contact and the strong pressure of 
his arm, decided against confiding Enid’s chatter to 
him in the expectation of hearing him laugh. After 
all, James might not see in it anything to laugh at. 


XVII 


O NCE informed of the gossip that was being cir- 
culated coupling her name with her cousin’s, 
Beatrice had little difficulty in tracing it to its source. 
Miss Gervais, ill-balanced in mind and possessed of a 
natural tendency towards making mischief, was in a 
spirit of bitter jealousy meanly insinuating that Bea- 
trice was pursuing her cousin with unwelcome atten- 
tions. This disturbed Beatrice only in as far as she 
feared that James might hear of it and be annoyed. 
To tell James herself as a joke was quite another mat- 
ter. And yet she found that for some inexplicable 
reason she could not tell James. He was so simply 
sincere that she felt he would realise merely the bad 
taste of the joke, and lose the point altogether. She 
rather inclined to lose the point herself at times be- 
fore Miss Gervais’ irritating mode of attack; and on 
one occasion she lost her temper, which was a matter 
of extreme mortification to her afterwards. That 
occasion was the day of the Sunday-school treat ; and 
her irritability was possibly largely due to the vexa- 
tions of the weather; the fine spell breaking unex- 
pectedly early in the afternoon as the long procession 
of children filed from the schoolroom to the church 
for the short service before going up to the field. 

Hurden, who was to drive Mrs. Ashleigh and a 
hamper of crockery to the ground, and who wore 
158 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


159 


his best suit in honour of the day, went about the 
business of harnessing the pony with a mind detached 
from the matter in hand, and an attentive eye on the 
horizon where' a solitary cloud showed no bigger than 
a handkerchief, a black smudge on the unstained blue 
of the sky. The little cloud grew bigger and gathered 
others to it, and the air became slightly chilly. Hur- 
den started to whistle softly with a note of growing 
confidence, and the satisfied expression of the person 
whose opinion is about to be substantiated settled upon 
his heavy features. 

“I told ’er it would rain o’ Toosday,” he muttered. 

‘‘What’s that?” demanded Mrs. Ashleigh’s cook, 
entering the yard with a couple of kettles in her hands, 
which she proceeded to stow beneath the seat of the 
carriage. “Who says it’s going to rain?” 

“I do. I told Miss Ashleigh three days since it’ud 
rain o’ Toosday; an’ it’s going to.” 

“Stuff and nonsense!” Mary retorted. “The glass 
is too high for that.” 

“That’s what she said,” Hurden answered unmoved. 
“ ‘The barometer’s too steady,’ she says. ‘Why do you 
think it’ll rain?’ she says. It always rains when we 
haves our treat, I says. An’ so it do. She laughed; 
now she’ll see who’s right. 

“ ‘It won’t rain this time,’ she says. If it don’t rain 
here it’ll rain somewhere else, I says. It always do. 
But she kep’ on laughing. You see, I says, it’ll rain 
o’ Toosday. An’ it’s goin’ to rain. I can smell it 
coming.” 

“Well, it won’t hurt you to be caught in it,” Mary 
retorted. “Pity it don’t rain soapsuds. The mistress 


160 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


told me to tell you if you won’t wash your ears she’ll 
take you to the pump herself and scrub them with a 
scrubbing-brush.” 

Hurden looked indignant. 

“I do wash my years,” he replied, flushing dully. 
“I washes ’em every day. I washes my feet too o’ 
Saturday nights.” 

“Wash your feet!” Mary ejaculated. “Don’t you 
have a bath?” 

“Wot, me?” he exclaimed, and stared at her in 
amazed offence. . . . “Take off my shirt an’ get in 
altogether? . . . Why, I’m much too big for that.” 

“Dirty young toad, you,” she replied, with unaf- 
fected disapproval. “The master and Mr. James haves 
a bath every mornin’.” 

Which information Hurden received in shocked and 
incredulous silence. The Saturday night bath, like 
kneeling at one’s mother’s knee with folded hands be- 
fore going to bed, was a part of childhood’s tribula- 
tions. He had dispensed with those indignities long 
ago. 

The first heavy drops of rain fell while he backed 
the pony between the shafts, descending like reluctant 
forerunners in large uncertain drops, and ceasing 
awhile as if loth to spoil the sunny brightness of the 
day. Before the children were well under cover in 
the church it had settled its indecision and was coming 
down in a steady, insistent manner that gave so little 
promise of lessening that Mrs. Ashleigh, looking upon 
the prospect and then at the lightly clad children, de- 
bated whether it would not be prudent to postpone 
the fete. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


161 


“I don’t see how that can be,” the superintendent 
of the girl’s Sunday school observed, “with all the 
food provided.” 

Mrs. Ashleigh set this argument aside in her deci- 
sive, downright way, which so often caused offence 
without intention. 

“It’s not to be thought of that the children should 
risk pneumonia for the sake of a few buns,” she said. 
“But this rain is so heavy, it may exhaust itself soon. 
We’ll see whether it clears after the service. No one 
wants to disappoint them without sufficient reason.” 

She looked along the well-filled pews, crowded with 
rustling, expectant children; little girls with damp 
white frocks, and pleased yet anxious faces beneath 
their Sunday hats; boys more serviceably clad, whose 
beaming shiny faces suggested recent ablutions; and 
babies of both sexes, happy and stolid, but all inter- 
ested, all intent and pleasantly excited. To disappoint 
these eager children was a measure to be resorted to 
only as a last extremity. 

And then suddenly the organ pealed forth. The 
rustling, the continuous low hum of suppressed talk- 
ing, became merged in one concerted movement, in a 
combined effort of sound : above the beating of the 
rain against the stained windows, in defiance of the 
lowering sky and the sodden ground beneath, the lusty 
young voices, upraised in shrill accord, sang with 
childish disregard for the inappropriate: 

“There’s a Friend for little children 
Above the bright blue sky . . 


162 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGB 


Beatrice wondered whether a sense of humour, or 
an utter lack of that quality, were responsible for the 
selection of the hymn. 

Later, between the showers, with band playing and 
banners waving dispiritedly in the intermittent sun- 
shine, the procession trailed with determined cheerful- 
ness through the muddy streets to the field. James 
threw out the suggestion to his cousin that she 
would be well advised to drive to the ground with his 
mother; but Beatrice declared in favour of walking 
with the procession. It gave her an impression, she 
confided to him afterwards, of being a member of the 
Salvation Army. 

“I am afraid it will be damp in the field,” Miss 
Gervais ventured brilliantly, regarding with mild sur- 
prise the water that ran down the sides of the road 
in muddy rivulets. 

The idea apparently had not occurred to her before. 
Beatrice, who walked beside her behind her small class, 
was immediately reminded of the convincing remark 
of another person whose intelligence matched that of 
Miss Gervais: “It’ll rain o’ Toosday; it always do 
when we haves our treat.” Results had justified 
Hurden’s prediction ; it seemed quite possible that Miss 
Gervais’ statement would be fulfilled likewise. 

The only thing to do, Mrs. Ashleigh affirmed, was 
to give the children tea while they were dry and 
then keep them moving about. 

As a first impression of a school treat Beatrice 
saw very little that could be called attractive about 
the entertainment. She helped to organise games for 
the smaller children, and untied the draggled ribbons 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


163 


of the maypole, the dancing round which was one of 
the features of the fete. James was starting races for 
the lads of his Bible class in the lower corner of the 
field. She stood for a while and watched him, un- 
conscious that she in turn was being watched and her 
interest in the boys’ races commented on. James and 
his boys, she reflected, notwithstanding that they had 
the worst part of the ground, seemed to be having 
quite a good time. 

Miss Gervais came and stood beside her. 

“Mr. Ashleigh is down there in the corner of the 
field,” she said. 

“So I see,” Beatrice answered, without moving. 

Miss Gervais giggled. 

“I wonder you don’t go and help him with his Bible 
class,” she observed. 

Beatrice turned her head deliberately and looked 
at the speaker, looked into the light eyes where lurked 
a spiteful malice which the warped nature could not 
repress; and she felt her anger rising. 

“Do you think he looks as though he needed help?” 
she asked. 

“I didn’t know,” Miss Gervais responded vaguely. 
“You’re so fond of boys; I thought you would prefer 
to be with them.” 

She turned away as she spoke, and went back to 
her stolid infants, who were anxiously waiting for 
teacher to start their races, and to award the prizes 
and little bags of sweets; while Beatrice, moved only 
by a desire to avoid her neighbourhood, returned to 
the maypole and the dancing; and, standing about on 
the wet grass, realised, before James called her notice 


164 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


to the fact, that her shoes were unsuited to the oc- 
casion. James came across to her during the after- 
noon and remonstrated with her in regard to her foot- 
wear. 

‘‘You’ll take cold,” he said. “Don’t you think you 
had better go home and change? Those shoes are too 
thin. They must be wet through.” 

Aware that Miss Gervais had approached near to 
them and was listening, Beatrice felt vexed that he 
should draw attention to the unsuitability of her shoes. 
It was a reflection on her common sense. 

“Suppose we all waxed timorous and went home to 
change?” she said impatiently. 

“Most of us have come better prepared,” he an- 
swered. “I believe I should be safe in asserting that 
your stockings are wet.” 

She flushed with increasing annoyance; and Miss 
Gervais, her feet sensibly shod in large boots, stout 
of sole and with patched uppers, giggled foolishly. 

“It was so very fine this morning,” she observed. 
“Perhaps Miss Ashleigh didn’t expect rain.” 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Beatrice said to her 
cousin. “Hobnails are not alone impervious to damp. 
My shoes are more serviceable than you imagine.” 

“I hope they are more serviceable than they look,” 
he replied coolly. “Anyway, my mother is leaving 
shortly — I wish you would drive back with her.” 

“I am going back with the procession,” she an- 
swered in a tone of finality that ended the discussion. 
“I am not in the least afraid of wet grass.” 

Further showers during the afternoon brought the 
proceedings to an early finish. It was a draggled pro- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


165 


cession that returned from the field and halted in the 
Square to sing the National Anthem and give three 
cheers before dispersing. Why they cheered, unless 
moved to follow blindly a time-honoured precedent, 
was a matter for speculation. Plainly the day had not 
proved an unqualified success. 

Beatrice, rather silent and tired and wet, turned 
in at the vicarage gate beside her cousin. James 
had left the field before she did; but he was in the 
Square when the procession reached it, and promptly 
on her arrival he took charge of her. She was too 
weary to protest; and, when he took her by the arm 
and led her indoors, she made no offer at resistance. 
He closed the front door behind them and, facing her 
in the dim hall and still holding her arm, he asked: 

“Why am I in disgrace?” 

She gave a vexed little laugh. 

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “And don’t keep me. 
I am wet through.” 

“Ah!” he said, and pushed her gently towards the 
staircase. 

Half-way up the stairs she paused and looked back 
at him. 

“I would rather die of pneumonia than wear such 
boots as Miss Gervais,” she said. 

She went on up to her room flushed and angry. 
The remark, she knew, had been ungenerous. She 
had caught the puzzled questioning in James’ eyes, 
his look of faint surprise at her unexpected outburst, 
and she felt slightly ashamed. The Gervaises were 
not well off : James, she knew, respected the patched 
boots; and possibly he saw nothing unsightly in the 


166 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


big clumsy feet; it was her own crude remark which 
would have appealed to him as ugly. 

She changed and went downstairs again with the 
feeling of 'irritation still uppermost. Mrs. Ashleigh 
had ordered supper for them; and James, waiting for 
her to come down before sitting down to it himself, 
eyed her critically when she made her appearance, his 
glance travelling, she observed, to her feet. 

“Dry shod?” he asked. “Stockings changed?” 

“Of course,” she answered shortly. “Don't be ab- 
surd!” 

He laughed, seeming quietly amused at her ill- 
temper. 

“If I didn’t know you were not a prude,” he said, 
“I should incline to the belief that you object to my 
mentioning stockings.” 

“The child is tired,” Mrs. Ashleigh interposed; 
“don’t tease her. She has been on her feet all day. 
Go along, Beatrice, and make a good meal. You will 
feel better for it.” 

“Better tempered, I hope,” Beatrice returned, and 
preceded her cousin to the dining-room. 

“You shouldn’t,” she observed, as she sat down, 
“comment upon my weak points before other people. 
It is unkind.” 

“It would be unkind if it were intentional,” he re- 
plied. “I may be unobservant, but I fail to recognise 
the weak points. What are they?” 

“That’s so like you, James,” was all she said in 
response, as she helped herself from the dish he handed 
her. 

“One should strive to be consistent,” he said, “even 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


167 


when one is merely consistently obtuse. I hope you 
are awfully hungry — I am. Having my ears boxed 
whets my appetite.” 

Beatrice suddenly laughed. She was not altogether 
sure that James’ remark was as simple of interpreta- 
tion as it sounded; but it had the effect at any rate 
of restoring her spirits. The vexations of the after- 
noon were trivialities speedily forgotten. 


XVIII 



LTHOUGH Charlie had promised to visit his 


sister at Wedgemere, Beatrice did not believe 
until his letter arrived fixing a date for the visit that 
he would come. Their uncle had given both her 
brothers a general invitation which neither of them 
had seemed inclined to avail himself of. Teddy had 
told her frankly not to look to see him at the vicarage ; 
he could not stand parsons; nor had Charlie shown 
much enthusiasm. She could, he had informed her 
with brotherly patronage, run up whenever she yearned 
after him. Now he wrote that he was coming down 
for a week-end, and threw out tentative suggestions 
in regard to a room. Mrs. Ashleigh settled that mat- 
ter by insisting that he should stay at the vicarage. 

It was unfortunate that his visit coincided with the 
visit of a missionary from Papua, who was touring 
the country for the purpose of raising funds by a 
series of mission sermons, and who arrived a few 
days in advance of Charlie. Beatrice entertained un- 
easy douMs as to her brother’s appreciation of the 
missionary’s presence, but she would not write to sug- 
gest a postponement for fear it might end in his de- 
ciding against coming; she could not risk that disap- 
pointment. It was so long since she had seen him; 
it seemed to her years rather than months. Now that 
the opportunity offered, she realised that she was hun- 


168 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


169 


gry for a glimpse of someone belonging to the old 
life. And Charlie had always been the favourite 
brother. Teddy was so much older, and of late years 
he had spent but little time in the home. Although 
she relied more on her elder brother, and looked to 
him to secure her future, it was of Charlie she thought 
oftenest, and whom she longed most earnestly to see. 
And now Charlie was coming; and not even the pon- 
derous presence of the Reverend Searoyd Pounding, 
a corpulent egoist with a sonorous voice and a paternal 
way with comely young women, could damp her eager 
anticipation in the prospect of seeing him again. 

Mr. Pounding evinced no interest in the expected 
arrival of Mr. Ashleigh’s nephew, which he heard 
freely discussed. The Ashleighs were all unaffectedly 
glad that Charlie was coming to see his sister; the 
pleasure they showed in her pleasure touched Beatrice 
deeply. Had it been a niece instead of a nephew who 
was expected at the vicarage, Mr. Pounding would 
have appreciated better the general satisfaction. He 
liked the gentler sex. Young ladies made usually 
such sympathetic listeners, and were always enthusi- 
astic over mission labour, and — well, yes, over the la- 
bourer too sometimes. Beatrice proved rather disap- 
pointing in this respect ; she gave him, as far as cour- 
tesy allowed, to understand that converting the heathen 
rather bored her. But his personal anecdotes were 
amusing; revealing such force of character, so much 
of courage and endurance, and so great a mastery over 
uncivilised man and beast, that to listen to them was 
to be impressed, not with, Mr. Pounding’s extraordi- 
nary bravery, nor with Mr. Pounding’s marvellous 


170 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


powers of control, but with his amazing conceit. 

“How splendid it must be to have the power to sub- 
due the king of beasts!” she remarked once on the 
conclusion of a stirring tale of a thrilling encounter 
with two lions, from which Mr. Pounding emerged 
safely with no weapon of defence other than his pres- 
ence of mind. 

“I stood perfectly still and looked at. them fixedly,” 
he said. “They dared not approach nearer. Had I 
moved a muscle, had I fluttered so much as an eyelid, 
I should have been lost.” 

“When next I am in London,” Beatrice observed, “I 
shall experiment on the lions in the Zoo. Of course 
the bars will be between us. Without the bars, I doubt 
that I should stay to stare a lion out of countenance.” 

The vicar chuckled, but Mr. Pounding received the 
speech with perfect gravity. 

“I think it not unreasonable to assert,” he returned 
pompously, “that a woman would be at great disad- 
vantage in circumstances similar to those I have just 
related. Women possess less nerve, and less compel- 
ling power; and though ready-witted under ordinary 
conditions, resource is apt to fail them in instances 
where great personal courage is the chief essential. I 
was very relieved that on that occasion I was alone. 
The presence of another person might have resulted in 
a very different version of the story.” 

“I think quite possibly it would have,” Beatrice re- 
plied; and created a diversion by carrying him off to 
splice a broken cricket bat for her, which he did in a 
workmanlike fashion that surprised her. 

He also contributed half a crown to the club funds, 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


171 


to be expended in a match ball ; this impulse of gener- 
osity being prompted less by his interest in the choir 
boys than his admiration for the team’s secretary. He 
found Miss Ashleigh a very charming and beautiful 
girl; and if a little spoilt, in consideration of her 
beauty, that was almost excusable. 

Beatrice drove alone to the station on Saturday to 
meet her brother. She had been busy with invalid 
cookery, and was a little late in starting; and though 
she endeavoured to hurry the fat pony, it was in a 
sulky mood and obstinately refused to mend its pace. 
The train was in when she drew up before the station 
entrance, and the solitary London passenger was stand- 
ing near the exit, with his suitcase beside him, looking 
expectantly up the road. When he caught sight of 
her he flourished his hat, and, the fat pony coming 
readily to a standstill, he advanced quickly, deposited 
the suit-case on the floor at Beatrice’s feet, and, put- 
ting his arm about her, kissed her heartily, to the in- 
terested curiosity of a porter and the booking-clerk. 

“ I made a fairly correct guess that you would meet 
me,” he observed; “likewise that you would be late. 
I was not brought up in the same nursery with you for 
nothing.” 

“Oh, Charlie!” she cried, laughing, and gazing at 
him with suspiciously bright eyes. “It is good to see 
you. I didn’t realise until I caught sight of you how 
home-sick I am.” 

“All right!” he returned, with studied lightness. 
“Don’t cry over me. Let that high stepper of yours 
go easy, and tell me all about everything. So they’re 
bedding me down at the vicarage? Something like 


172 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


sleeping in a church, eh? Night and morning prayers, 
I suppose, and serious conversation?” 

“Nothing that will do you any harm,” she replied, 
and added : “They’re wonderfully kind, Charlie.” 

“That’s all very well,” he returned, manifestly un- 
impressed. “But they’ll be wanting to know my con- 
victions. If they put leading questions to me I’ll ad- 
mit that I’m a Baptist. It’s true ; I baptize every morn- 
ing.” 

“If that’s all that is worrying you, you can put it 
out of your thoughts,” she said. “No one will show 
the faintest interest in your views. You need not, 
unless you wish, go to church to-morrow — though I 
should like you to go.” 

“In order to admire your decorations on the altar,” 
he rejoined, and smiled broadly. “I told you, if you 
remember, that you were cut out for that sort of 
thing. Anyway, it agrees with you; you are looking 
first-rate — even your nose wears a cheerful bloom.” 

“I’m afraid I scorched that at the kitchen stove this 
morning,” she remarked, tenderly caressing the feature 
referred to. 

“Doesn’t our respected uncle keep a cook?” he 
asked. 

“Of course, you old lunatic!” 

“Since it is a sign of imbecility to infer that you 
were cooking from obligation,” he retorted, unmoved, 
“what, I should like to know, were you doing at the 
kitchen stove? — making toffee?” 

“No — making giblet broth for a consumptive boy.” 

Charlie regarded her critically for a moment with a 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


173 


hint of hidden things in the look, and concealed a smile 
with a movement of one hand. 

“I can understand the consumption — I am a good 
trencher man myself,” he said. “But what the deuce 
is giblet?” 

“Don’t joke, Charlie,” she said. “The boy is very 
ill.” 

This time he allowed the smile to show as he looked 
quizzically into her serious eyes. 

“So you visit the sick and poor, my fair sister, as 
well as decorate the altar vases. Have you joined the 
brass band too?” 

“No,” she answered, with a laugh. “I’m not 
tempted that way.” 

“You are rather nice in your distinctions,” he re- 
joined. “You don’t mind cooking, but object to char- 
ing. I shall have to report to Teddy that you are 
sacrificing your sole asset in making giblet broth for 
the satisfaction of abnormal appetites. Bear in mind, 
young person, that your face is your fortune.” 

“How is Teddy?” she asked. “I wish he would 
come down.” 

“He probably will if he decides upon taking the 
step he contemplates. Nous venous.” 

“What step is that? He isn’t going to be married, 
surely ?” 

Charlie patted her shoulder soothingly. 

“Keep your hair on, dear girl,” he counselled. 
“Teddy can’t support a wife, and he knows it. It’s 
worse than that. He talks of leaving the Service and 
trying his luck in the Colonies. The complaint he has 
developed is credulity. He believes it is quite possible, 


174 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


even easy, to make a fortune without any capital in any 
country outside these Isles. He proposes digging for 
the fortune. He would be wiser to stay in England 
and hoe potatoes/’ 

“Give up the Service!” Beatrice cried, amazed. 
“What an idea ! Didn’t you attempt to dissuade him?” 

“I told him he was an ass,” Charlie admitted. “But 
when a fellow is positive he is going to dig up a koh- 
i-noh, he takes a lot of dissuading. He gives as his 
reason that he wants to make a home for you. It 
wasn’t a bit of use my delicately pointing out that 
probably while he was busy about it someone else 
would get in front of him. He says it’s up to him to 
consider you.” 

“That’s dear of him,” she replied. “But he mustn’t 
sacrifice his future. I’ll write to him. I’m glad you 
told me. He is a reliable person, isn’t he? I don’t 
believe it would enter your thoughts to bother about 
making a home for me.” 

“I’d bother right enough,” he responded cheerfully ; 
“but ten chances to one when I got the home I should 
want to ask some other girl to share it. It’s no use 
depending on me. Teddy’s your man. He isn’t a 
marrying sort. He has a head too; and, if money is 
to be made with none to lay out in the making, he is as 
likely to succeed as anyone. But money appears to me 
an aggregating commodity, requiring a fairly sub- 
stantial base of the same material. I may be wrong.” 

He switched off the conversation from Teddy, and 
told her items of news about old friends. Once he 
referred to Wilson. The fellow was always worrying 
Mrs. Enfield for news of her. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


175 


“She wants you to go to them/’ he finished. “Why 
don’t you, Bee? She needs someone now Ellie has 
deserted.” 

Beatrice shook her head, and drew the whip idly 
across the pony’s broad back. 

“I can’t go yet,” she answered at length. “I’d like 
to ; but it would only unsettle me. When I’ve got used 
to this life; when I am satisfied to carry on here, then 
I’ll risk returning. I’m afraid to go back so soon.” 

Charlie did not argue the point. Beatrice had al- 
ways followed her own lead. He had known her be- 
fore sacrifice her inclination for motives he neither 
understood nor sympathised with. For himself, he 
followed always the path of least resistance. 

“Who are the young parishioners?” he asked. 

The choir boys were lined up in the road outside 
the vicarage. They knew that Miss Ashleigh’s brother 
was coming; and they had left the field, where they 
had their pitch early, for the purpose of viewing the 
arrival. When the carriage appeared, two of them 
shouldered their bag and prepared to carry it within. 
The captain of the team held the gate open. Beatrice 
leaned over the side of the low carriage to inquire how 
the match had prospered ; and the whole team, staring 
with unabashed curiosity, drew nearer to observe the 
newcomer. 

“That’s my cricket team,” she answered, driving 
through the gate which the captain closed behind her. 
“They are choir boys — jolly little chaps. I’m secre- 
tary to the club. The captain, the one who held the 
gate, is a delightful boy. I am really fond of him. 
He’s a pickle, though.” 


176 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“You wouldn’t be fond of him if he wasn’t,” he 
replied, with conviction. “What’s your part in the 
show? . . . Do you organise meetings and read the 
minutes?” 

Beatrice looked vague; her idea of minutes was 
connected solely with time; the club was not worked 
altogether systematically. 

“I organise meetings,” she said, “and see to it that 
they pay their subscriptions. Occasionally I fine some- 
one. But, on the whole, they give very little trouble.” 

“And what part does our reverend cousin take in 
'the club?” 

“James? Oh, he only subscribes to it.” 

“Well, there isn’t much excitement about that,” he 
rejoined. “I don’t mind subscribing too, if it isn’t a 
ruinous matter. But if anyone had told me nine 
months ago I should live to see my only sister secre- 
tary of a cricket club, parish worker, and proprietress 
of a soup kitchen, I should have called that man a 
liar.” 


XIX 


T> EATRICE had not prepared her brother for the 
reception which awaited him; no hint as to the 
homogeneous gathering collected in the vicarage 
drawing-room to drink tea in honour of the great mis- 
sionary escaped her. She alluded remotely to Mr. 
Pounding’s visit, which she referred to as a nuisance. 

“He’s one of the S.P.G. people,” she said. “We get 
lots of them.” 

“What do the cryptic letters stand for?” Charlie 
inquired. 

“The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel. 
He is out a lot. And of course there is no need for us 
to attend the lectures.” 

“No; I should say distinctly not. If he leaves us 
alone we shan’t quarrel with him. Still, if you had 
warned me I could have come at a more convenient 
time.” 

“I was afraid to risk that,” she said, and laughed. 

And then Charlie found himself abruptly confronted 
by a large and representative gathering, as the draw- 
ing-room door opened to its widest with disconcerting 
unexpectedness, and an unknown woman appeared in 
the aperture and came towards him and kissed him. 
He was immensely unprepared. He reddened and 
felt foolish. But no one appeared moved to surprise. 
The low hum of talk inside the room went on without 


177 


178 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


pause, broken only by the occasional chink of china, 
and the intrusive blundering of Hurden as he thrust 
insistently between the speakers in carrying round 
tea. 

Mrs. Ashleigh politely inquired whether he had had 
a pleasant journey. She was, she stated with quite 
obvious sincerity, very pleased to see him. He felt 
relieved when she turned him over to the vicar, who 
led him first to the principal guest, and having intro- 
duced him to Mr. Pounding, who was not effusive, 
effected a further introduction to Miss Gervais, and 
left him with her. 

Miss Gervais acknowledged the introduction with 
qualified pleasure. It interrupted an interesting talk 
she was enjoying with the great missionary. Next to 
a corpse there was nothing she loved so well as a mis- 
sionary; a martyred missionary thrilled her with sub- 
lime enthusiasm. She had known one. She had been 
recalling to Mr. Pounding before Charlie’s arrival the 
horrible details of his massacre in China; and Mr. 
Pounding had exclaimed in his sonorous voice, with 
head erect and chest expanded in appreciative pride: 
“What a glorious distinction! . . . What a glorious 
distinction!” Miss Gervais’ dead and tortured ac- 
quaintance had won the inestimable privilege of being 
singled out for the honour of martyrdom in the 
Church’s cause. 

Miss Gervais repeated this story to Charlie, dwell- 
ing with so morbid a relish on the horrors and indig- 
nities which the martyr had suffered, that Charlie felt 
doubtful of her sanity. The amazed stare with which 
he received the information of Mr. Pounding’s tribute 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


179 


to, and envy of, the dead man’s sufferings, changed to 
an expression of amusement as his ear caught the 
sound of Mr. Pounding’s complacent voice discours- 
ing amiably on his labours among the heathen, and his 
glance fell upon the heavy, self-indulgent face above 
the corpulent figure. 

“He looks cut out for a martyr, doesn’t he?” he 
said. 

“Yes,” Miss Gervais agreed readily. “There is such 
a grand me’ancholy in his eyes.*’ 

“There’s a grand something in them,” he rejoined, 
and laughed. “If you say it’s melancholy, I’ll accept 
your word for it. If he enjoys martyrdom, why 
doesn’t he go to Benin? They eat things out there.” 

Miss Gervais’ eyes narrowed as she looked at him 
in a curiously vindictive way. If he had entertained 
doubts as to her sanity before, these were finally dis- 
pelled : he was not very positive that she was harm- 
less. 

“He lectures to-night,” she said. “You will hear 
something about his work at the mission hall.” 

“Plainly you are not acquainted with my sister,” he 
replied. “She will see to it that I don’t attend any 
lecture but her own. Years of severe discipline have 
taught me obedience. x She is going to take me to 
church to-morrow, though.” 

“You will hear Mr. Pounding then,” she assured 
him. “I expect Miss Ashleigh would have preferred 
you to hear her cousin.” 

“Why?” he asked, surprised. “Is he something 
very special in the preaching line?” 

“He has improved a great deal lately,” Miss Ger- 


180 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


vais said, and giggled foolishly. ‘Tie admires Miss 
Ashleigh very much.” 

Charlie scrutinised her with a reflective air. 

“So do I,” he answered. “I sometimes wish she 
wasn’t my sister. I hope his admiration doesn’t affect 
his appetite. He looks hungry.” 

His glance travelled in the direction of Mr. Gervais 
who, standing beside Beatrice with a plate of cake, was 
pressing this delicacy upon her. Charlie had taken it 
for granted that the hollow-cheeked ascetic was his 
cousin. He had rather wondered why he did not come 
forward and speak to him, but had attributed the lack 
of cordiality to the ascetic manner; he was therefore 
considerably taken aback when Miss Gervais, whose 
swift glance followed his, remarked with frigid em- 
phasis : 

“That is my brother.” 

Not for a moment had Charlie connected Miss Ger- 
vais with the church other than as a humble and ob- 
scure worker in the parish who was tolerated at the 
vicarage on account of her usefulness. As the sister 
of a clergyman, he reflected, with a relentless eye on 
the holes in the cotton gloves and on the slit in the 
unbecoming brown veil, she was inconsistent. She 
might at least mend her clothes. 

“I am not going to try to get out of it by saying 
I meant someone else,” he said, looking her steadily in 
the eyes, with the hint of a smile in his own. “That’s 
a poor way of shuffling out of a mess. I apologise for 
my faux pas. It was unpardonable. All the same, 
take my advice and feed him up. It isn’t healthy to be 
able to see through a man’s head.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


181 


Miss Gervais recovered her amiability and started 
to giggle again. 

“You can tell him that to-morrow,” she said. “We 
are coming in to supper after church. I suppose I 
shall see you then?” 

“Oh, you are safe to find me at the supper-table if 
you happen to miss me elsewhere,” he said, and added 
ambiguously: “You have given me something to look 
forward to.” 

Rather late, when the room had thinned consider- 
ably, James came in. Charlie, regarding his cousin 
with a greater attentiveness than he was wont to be- 
stow on his own sex, was forced to acknowledge that 
so far as externals were concerned James was very 
passably well favoured. He made the further discov- 
ery, when James advanced to speak to him, that he 
was quite a good fellow. Somehow he had expected, 
perhaps as a result of Beatrice’s statement that James 
was very near perfection, to find him rather a muff. 
Mr. Gervais answered more aptly to his mental pic- 
ture of his cousin than the original. There was so 
much more of the man than of the priest apparent in 
James’ strong, pleasant face that Charlie found him- 
self liking him instinctively, taking him on trust even 
before their brief intimate chat cemented this appre- 
ciation and fixed it on a firm and enduring basis. 

He had meant to chaff Beatrice in regard to James; 
but, observing James’ manner towards her, and her 
own earnest attention when he spoke, having also in 
mind the foolish, irrelevant confidence of Miss Ger- 
vais, he reconsidered the matter, and decided that it 


182 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


were wiser to bar James as a topic of conversation 
when they were alone. 

He had ample opportunity for studying his cousin 
during dinner that evening under cover of Mr. Pound- 
ing’s talk, which rolled on unceasingly with the resist- 
less inevitableness of an incoming tide. Charlie en- 
tertained the suspicion that Mr. Pounding knew they 
meant to shirk his lecture, and was bent on inflicting 
as much of it as possible while he held them com- 
pulsory listeners at the vicar’s hospitable board. It 
was rather a mean way of securing an audience, he 
thought. 

“What a veritable nest of priests have I dropped 
into!” he complained to his sister when the others 
having left for the mission hall, he found himself alone 
with her. “I don’t wonder you are growing serious. 
It has a sort of damping effect. The big man of the 
melancholy eye talks like a gramophone — he’s about as 
tactful as a gramophone; whatever’s on the record he 
calls his mind one’s safe to get it. Spoilt my dinner 
with his yarns about the beastly niggers. I can’t un- 
derstand the European craze for blacks.” 

“He is rather a bore,” Beatrice acknowledged. 

“And that hungry-looking Jesuit who was here this 
afternoon — he’d be better for some of your giblet 
broth, Bee. I tried to buck his sister up to feeding 
him; but she’s only interested in dead missionaries.” 

“I thought she appeared rather interested in you,” 
Beatrice retorted. 

Charlie looked round with a laugh in his eyes. 

“I believe she’s taken a fancy to me,” he said — “old 
enough to be my aunt too.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


183 


“Don’t you flatter yourself; it is James who owns 
her heart.” 

He lifted his brows. 

“So,” he murmured, “that’s where the shoe pinches ! 
. . What does he purpose doing with the organ ?” 

“I doubt whether he realises that he possesses it,” 
she replied. 

She was standing near the open window, looking 
with a faint smile at her brother where he lounged in 
lazy enjoyment in a low chair with a cushion which 
she had furnished under his head. She took immense 
pleasure simply in watching him. It was so good to 
have him there. 

“She is too giddy for James,” he said decidedly. 
“She giggles. And she wouldn’t mend his clothes — 
she doesn’t mend her own.” 

“And how about your clothes?” she inquired de- 
risively. 

“Oh! I could get some other girl to do that for 
me,” he returned easily. “James couldn’t on account 
of his cloth. There is some satisfaction in wearing 
tweed.” 

Beatrice suddenly laughed. 

“You don’t appreciate the value of James’ cloth,” 
she said. “It carries with it the privilege of command- 
ing service. Even I mend his socks. And I know of 
one parishioner who makes him braces.” 

He looked disgusted. 

“Well, of course,” he said, “I can’t compete with 
that.” 

It occurred to Charlie, when the party from the 
mission hall returned, that James, who revealed the 


184 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


possession of a very excellent baritone and a quite 
remarkabl i knowledge of music, was a formidable 
competitor in most respects. It was not clear to him 
who proposed music, or if anyone proposed it; pos- 
sibly it was a nightly custom at the vicarage. James 
sang to Beatrice’s accompaniment; and then Beatrice, 
as though challenging his serious selection, sang after 
him a light French love song. Charlie heard James 
say in response to some low-toned remark of the 
singer’s : 

“I like it. It suits you to be gay.” 

Beatrice made a reply which he did not catch; and 
in answer to this James rejoined: 

“Some people would close every shutter and keep 
the sunlight out of their lives. But sunlight brightens 
and purifies and does no harm.” 

“It fades the carpets, James,” observed his mother, 
who had overheard the last part of his speech and, 
following an invariable custom with her, interpreted 
it literally. 

Charlie liked the ready laugh with which James 
received this, and the non-controversial spirit of his 
acquiescence : 

“Occasionally it is necessary to lower the blinds.” 
On the whole, Charlie enjoyed the evening. The 
thorn in the flesh was Mr. Pounding. Clearly it was 
Mr. Pounding’s duty to talk to the vicar and his 
hostess ; his hostess thought so at least ; but Mr. Pound- 
ing held other views. He left the nephew to his rela- 
tions, and monopolised the niece. He was disap- 
pointed that she had missed his lecture, the last of the 
week-day series which he was to deliver. It was, he 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


185 


informed her, the most interesting of all. He had 
made it purposely anecdotal and bright and character- 
istic, because she had said that she found the tales of 
the natives amusing, and she had shown an interest in 
their habits and customs. Also he had introduced one 
or two personal adventures which he would have liked 
her to hear. He recalled that she had been impressed 
with certain stories he had told her. Lots of amaz- 
ing things happened to him. He was not wishful to 
appear over-confident ; but he had been singularly 
blessed in the matter of miraculous deliverances from 
situations of grave danger; though for himself he de- 
sired nothing better than to die a martyr’s death. . . . 

No wonder that the congregation as it streamed 
homeward from the mission hall that night had had 
nothing but warm words of praise for the beautiful 
discourse, and had declared it a privilege to sit under 
such a good man. 


XX 


\\T ALKING in the garden before breakfast on the 
* * following morning, oblivious of the fact that it 
was the Sabbath, also that he was wandering in 
grounds that were hallowed so to speak by connection 
with the church, oblivious indeed of everything for the 
moment save the inconvenience of the high wind, 
Charlie, having twice nearly lost his hat, dived within 
the shelter of the shrubbery in order to escape these 
manifestations of intolerable high spirits on the part 
of the elements, and, with his head down after the 
manner of a bull in the act of charging, muttered : 

“Blast the wind!” 

“At last,” he thought, “I understand why the hat is 
in disrepute at Oxford.” 

“Young man,” exclaimed a pompous voice in ac- 
cents of reproval, “you should not permit such licence 
in your speech.” 

Lifting his head with a jerk, only in time to avoid 
butting into the great missionary, Charlie found him- 
self face to face with Mr. Pounding, also taking a 
stroll before breakfast, bent indeed on the same pur- 
suit as himself. 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I had no idea 
anyone was within hearing.” 

“Had no human ear caught the profanity of your 
186 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


187 


remark,” Mr. Pounding returned severely, “it would 
have been within hearing all the same. ,, 

Involuntarily Charlie smiled. 

“Your estimate of my language is open to question,” 
he said. “The wind being a blast, it is not unsuitable 
surely to use that term in connection with it? The 
one suggests the other. To-day, being fairly boister- 
ous, one could not for instance refer to it as a breeze.” 

“One need not,” Mr. Pounding replied sententiously, 
“refer to it at all.” 

“There is no need, if it comes to that, to refer to 
anything,” Charlie rejoined. “But that would limit 
conversation somewhat.” 

“I do not,” Mr. Pounding observed in his best ora- 
torical style, “care to hear the elements thus discussed. 
They are a dispensation of Providence, and should be 
accepted in a spirit of submission. All things have 
their uses.” 

“I wonder!” Charlie mused, and looked at Mr. 
Pounding with a speculative eye. Then he switched 
off the conversation abruptly from that topic and 
switched it on with equal suddenness to a more con- 
genial theme. “I am looking for my sister,” he said. 
“Have you seen her anywhere about?” 

Mr. Pounding had not; he was as a matter of fact 
looking for her too; therefore he turned and bent his 
steps in the same direction, and allowed himself to be- 
come more urbane. 

“It is possible that Miss Ashleigh is out walking,” 
he suggested. 

“It is impossible that she is doing anything of the 
sort,” Charlie replied, with conviction, and consulted 


188 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


his watch. “She is far more likely to be still between 
the sheets — worm-catching in the dew was never an 
accomplishment of hers.” 

Mr. Pounding, who instinctively disliked this young 
man, found himself wondering how so charming a 
girl came to possess so objectionable a brother. 

“I have since I have been here,” he asserted, “in- 
variably found Miss Ashleigh up and abroad at this 
hour.” 

And then Charlie became aware of Beatrice skulk- 
ing behind some rhododendrons, making furtive signs 
to him behind Mr. Pounding’s back. 

“I incline to my theory anent the sheets,” he said, 
with unblushing disingenuousness. “I’m going back 
to the house to make sure. If you meet her, will you 
tell her, please, that I am waiting for her indoors?” 

“What a pity,” Beatrice breathed vindictively, when 
a few seconds later, Charlie having joined her, they 
made off together in surreptitious haste towards the 
road, “that the Papua natives were too fastidious to 
dine off him. They eat each other, he says.” 

“There is a limit,” Charlie plagiarised, “to the en- 
durance of human nature — even of a Papua native’s. 
Mr. Pounding appears to entertain a paternal regard 
for you.” 

“I distrust these fatherly old men,” Beatrice replied. 

Charlie smiled broadly. 

“He wouldn’t enjoy that reflection on his youth,” 
he said. 

They walked on quickly, getting by abrupt turns 
and unsuspected passages into the fields. Beatrice 
was familiar now with the geography of the neigh- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


189 


bourhood; and she avoided the populous haunts, and 
led her brother to the field-path by intricate and curi- 
ous ways. When she felt they were sufficiently far 
from the common route she seated herself on a stile 
and directed his attention to the landscape, while he 
leaned against the gate beside her and stared about 
him with a sort of admiring curiosity that was ques- 
tioning as well as appreciative. He had dropped into 
a new world, upon which he looked with the inquiring 
interest of the receptive mind. It was not just open 
country he was gazing upon; it was an unfamiliar up- 
land of entirely new thought — a new thought that was 
strangely compelling and provocative and insistent. 
He wanted urgently to discuss with her subjects which 
hitherto they had never touched upon, which they had 
comfortably ignored with the facile indolence of scep- 
ticism ; and he was shy now of venturing upon these 
things. She might misunderstand him, might con- 
ceivably deride his earnestness. But his desire to 
question her upon certain matters overcame his diffi- 
dence. 

“Since you’ve been here,” he said abruptly, and with 
a jerkiness of manner that denoted self-consciousness 
and an increasing difficulty to express himself intelli- 
gently — “since you’ve had some opportunity of hear- 
ing the other side — of judging, as it were — I want to 
ask you, have you altered any of your old ideas? . . . 
We’ve joked about these things, you and I . . . we’ve 
joked since I came down yesterday; but one gets pulled 
up occasionally — mentally, I mean. One can’t help 
wondering.” 

He broke off awkwardly, and, flushed and a trifle 


190 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


shamefaced, evaded her eyes. Beatrice looked at him, 
faintly perplexed. 

“This missionary business/’ he went on presently — 
“we laugh at it; but — suppose there is something in 
it? Suppose they’re right, these people, after all? 
How is one to know?” 

She smiled coolly as she sat leaning back against 
the gate, with her eyes on the drifting clouds which 
floated lazily in the summer blue. She threw out an 
expressive hand. 

“How can one know?” she asked. “James would 
tell you, as he has told me, that mission work is simply 
rebuilding the city which has fallen away. He affirms 
that every nation has its religion, based more or less 
on the Christian faith — corruptions of the truth. These 
mostly include the doctrine of the Trinity — the Incar- 
nation, Sacrifice, and Forgiveness, which are the foun- 
dations of the Christian faith. Yet Darwin, a cleverer 
man than James, asserts that there is no evidence that 
man was originally endowed with the ennobling belief 
in the existence of an Omnipotent God; that, on the 
contrary, there is ample evidence that numerous races 
have existed, and still exist, who have no idea of one 
or more Gods, and have no words in their language 
to express such an idea. . . . How can one know ?” 

“No.” 

He seemed to acquiesce; and then, after a further 
contemplation of the remotely smiling landscape un- 
folding gradually with the day’s advance, becoming 
more distinctive, more assertive as to colouring, with 
boundaries sharply defined, and the green of its swell- 
ing bosom softening to gold where the early sun ca- 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


191 


ressed it, he lost something of his freshly acquired as- 
surance, and stared about him perplexedly through a 
foam of trees to the far-away hills melting into the 
golden mist of the morning. 

“One can’t help feeling,” he said, “when one looks 
on all this, that there must be something — Someone. 
. . . One is forced, as it were, to accept the idea of a 
Divine Creator. It explains things. I’ve been think- 
ing a lot about these things lately — I used not to. I’m 
catching hold of a sort of belief. . . . Are you?” 

“No.” Her calm, steadfast eyes fastened upon his 
questioning ones. “I see no greater reason for belief 
than for unbelief. No one knows. No one can know. 
I don’t see that it matters. ‘If we do well here, we’ll 
be well there,’ as the old sermon has it.” 

“But,” he persisted, and hesitated . . . “one wants 
some sort of explanation. . . . The whole thing — life 
— seems so purposeless else. There’s the soul. . . „ 
One wants to know — how things started, and how they 
are going to end.” 

“If one demand an explanation of the creation, why 
not of the Creator?” she asked. “It’s so futile. 
There’s no end to it. The finite mind cannot grasp 
the infinite. I don’t want things explained. I am 
content to say with the poet, ‘Behold, I know not any- 
thing.’ ” 

“Yes,” he rejoined, and leaned with folded arms 
on the gate, his still perplexed and inquiring eyes 
wandering speculatively over the landscape. “But 
that’s not enough for me. This matter is beginning to 
interest me enormously.” 

“You had better take to week-ending here,” she 


192 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


said, still smiling and faintly ironical. “Uncle Thomas 
and James will both be ready to give you all the help 
they can. If they aren’t brilliantly clever, they are 
sincere, and that’s better.” 

“You don’t care?” he said, looking at her quietly. 

She shook her head. 

“I don’t care,” she replied. 

He withdrew his gaze then and stared beyond him 
as before. After all, why should one care? As she 
said, it wasn’t possible for the finite mind to know. 

He was still puzzling these matters, still gazing 
abstractedly into the distance to the neglect of the 
nearer prospect, when suddenly he was apprised of 
the approach of someone by the quick movement of 
his sister as she rose from the stile, and by her spon- 
taneously uttered greeting. He faced about deliber- 
ately, and became instantly intensely conscious of, and 
interested in, the young person who thus disturbed 
the quiet of their retreat. The girl nodded with curt 
shyness in response to Beatrice’s greeting, and 
mounted the stile and got over it a little clumsily, and 
hastened away across the field without looking back. 

“By Jove!” Charlie said. “That was a pretty girl.* 

He started to whistle “There was a miller’s daugh- 
ter” as he leaned again on the gate and looked after 
the rapidly disappearing figure. There remained in 
his memory with surprising clearness the quick flash 
of bright eyes, and the sensuous curve of red pouting 
lips. She suggested to his mind one of the Greuze 
heads. 

“She doesn’t live beside a mill,” Beatrice said, “but 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


193 


on a farm. Aunt Marion speaks of her as a wild 
girl.” 

“A wild rose,” he corrected. “I am beginning to 
envy James.” 

She laughed. 

“Rustic beauty loses its appeal when one comes into 
closer contact. It takes more than a pretty face to 
compensate for an uncouth mind. I like Jenny. She 
is rugged, but unmanageable.” 

“I’d like to try my hand at managing her,” Charlie 
said. “Perhaps James hasn’t attempted kindness.” 

He lifted his head with a jerk, as another figure, 
emerging unexpectedly, as though it had lain con- 
cealed among the growing barley, joined the girl’s 
hurrying form and disappeared beside it into a mist 
of waving corn. 

“The completion of the rustic idyll!” he said in dis* 
gusted tones. “That detracts immensely from the 
poetry. Don’t you think it is time we were cutting 
back to breakfast?” 

“Ridiculous boy!” she smiled, and slipped a hand 
within his arm as she turned and walked back with 
him along the path between the barley. 

That was Charlie’s way — one moment profoundly 
serious, with a sense of grave responsibility and the 
necessity for big decisions, and the next carelessly 
shifting the responsibility, satisfied with the hour and 
the pleasures that it brought. 


XXI 


/^HARLIE’S visit to Wedgemere was productive 
of results which he had not foreseen when one 
day he had carelessly decided to go and see his sister. 
His aunt and cousin had made him simply welcome; 
his uncle had given him to realise that he ought to 
have come sooner, and had wrung a promise from 
him to come again at no great distance of time. He 
had, and was surprised to feel it, a strange sense of 
kinship and sympathy with these relations of his. 
They inspired liking in him and trust. He was glad 
that he had made the journey. And yet he was not 
tempted to prolong his visit, although nothing claimed 
him but an engagement with Mrs. Enfield at her coun- 
try house. He was going from Wedgemere into Berk- 
shire. Ellie was to be there — and her husband. And 
possibly Teddy would spend a few days. Mrs. En- 
field had wished Charlie to bring Beatrice back with 
him ; but Beatrice was, as she expressed it, scared to 
go. She was not yet sufficiently settled in the new life 
to risk a return to the old — a return which could not 
be enduring, and which might stir up within her a new 
restlessness, a greater discontent. 

“You can’t understand,” she told him, “because 
you’re a man. Life is made easy for you. You can 
map out your own future.” 

“You used to stand up to me in the old days in 
194 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


195 


defence of the equality of the sexes,” he reminded her, 
smiling. “You knocked me about, if you remember. 
But you haven’t proved your case.” 

“The equality of sex — yes,” she admitted thought- 
fully — “but not the equality of chance. Life is made 
easy for you. We’ve got to wrest everything we get 
by sheer force of will and brain and energy. They 
don’t always go together, these qualities. And it’s a 
hard fight, an unequal fight, at the best, this fight 
against the accepted order of things — against preju- 
dice and envy and the assured competition of those 
long established in the field. Men don’t take kindly to 
change, and the competition of women means change 
— a big, an ever-menacing change. You’ve got to face 
it — got to accept it some time. It is one of the in- 
evitabilities of the future — nature’s abundant insist- 
ence upon the futility of waste. I had my chance, 
and I didn’t take it. I didn’t prove my case. Stronger 
women than I have proved it — are proving it. They 
will win in the end. I’m a failure. I admit it. As a 
result, I am living dependent on the kindness of others. 
Write me down an individual failure, Charlie, but 
don’t write failure against the sex. That isn’t fair — 
isn’t playing the game. It’s like stabbing in the back 
when you have your adversary at a disadvantage but 
not beaten. It’s mean . . .” 

So Charlie went into Berkshire without his sister, 
and explained her refusal to accompany him as a hair- 
shirt argument against having a good time. 

“She is in the most select company,” he said. “I 
left her to the improvipg society of the Bishop of 
Rumtifoo.” 


196 


BEATEICE ASHLEIGH 


“Who is he?” Mrs. Enfield asked vaguely. 

Charlie smiled. 

“Oh, just a missionary man without a sense of 
humour. Bee is developing on those lines herself; 
she’s a different girl altogether. To use a flowery 
metaphor, she is rather like a rose bush run to seed.” 

Mrs. Enfield looked genuinely alarmed. 

“You don’t mean — do you? — that she is growing 
fat?” 

He laughed outright at that. 

“No — hipped was what I intended to convey. . . . 
She does parish work, and darns James’ socks.” 

“The curate-cousin’s?” Mrs. Enfield was horrified. 
“She might have worn a coronet,” she said tragically. 
“She can still have Ernest Wilson — he’s moonstruck 
for her. I will never forgive you if you let her throw 
herself away on a miserable curate.” 

“I can’t help it,” Charlie expostulated. “She seems 
to like that sort of thing. And — hang it all! — James 
is quite a good sort.” 

Teddy, to whom Mrs. Enfield unburdened herself 
later, was so annoyed that, to his brother’s amaze- 
ment, he came to his room and questioned him on the 
subject. It had seemed more of a joke than anything 
else to Charlie; he had never seriously considered 
James as a possible brother-in-law. 

“I would have let her marry Hurst rather than that 
should happen,” Teddy said. 

“Do you mean,” Charlie asked, showing his aston- 
ishment, “that she was really gone on that fellow? 
He hung round a lot at one time; but I thought he 
was only one of her boys.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


197 


“She liked him,” Teddy asserted. 

A queer glint shone in the blue eyes which Charlie 
fixed on his brother’s face, a puzzled, inquiring, 
slightly hostile glint. He began to see light — to un- 
derstand better why Beatrice preferred the quiet of 
the country, why she seemed to have lost the bright 
keenness, the hope and the spring of youth. 

“How came she to let you influence her in such a 
matter?” he asked. 

“I told her — something about him. . . . You’ve 
heard it, though it isn’t generally known.” 

“And — why — the devil — did — you — do it?” de- 
manded Charlie, with emphatic slowness. 

Edward Ashleigh changed colour, but he managed 
to keep his temper. 

“Would you wish Beatrice to marry Hurst?” he 
asked coldly. 

“No,” Charlie rapped out shortly. “I’d rather she 
married James Ashleigh. I’m only afraid now she 
won’t.” 

And for several seconds after he was alone he paced 
the floor of his bedroom and let off profanities at a 
rate that would have fairly pulverised Mr. Pounding, 
and compared with which the blasting of the elements 
was mere poetic fancy. That Bee, smart, bright, jolly 
Bee, should hit up against a blank wall like this and 
hurt herself — badly! . . . And for a man like that 
— self-contained, farouche — handsome of body and 
face, and possessed of an ugly mind. It was un- 
thinkable. . . . And yet, after all, what did he know 
about the man’s mind? He knew of one ugly inci- 
dent in his life — only one; some men have many such 


198 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


scores against them. It might be that that ugly inci- 
dent was an inconsistency, a septic sore disfiguring 
otherwise healthy flesh — it might have little or nothing 
to do with his mind . . . his mind might conceiv- 
ably be set against that sort of thing, might recoil 
from it, as a healthy person recoils instinctively from 
the sight of a festering wound. To damn the man 
on account of one slip was unjust; like — and he came 
to a standstill, smiling at the thought which came to 
him — damning a sex on account of a case of indi- 
vidual failure. It was unreasonable and therefore 
ridiculous. 

“She won’t marry a curate,” he said ; and undressed 
and got into bed, dismissing the thoughts which like 
unsightly clouds had trailed for a space across the 
smiling blue. 

Charlie slept soundly and dreamed of a wild-rose 
face among the barley. And in Devonshire a girl lay, 
wide-eyed and wakeful, thinking — thinking always, 
not of Charlie, but of a dark, strong face with dis- 
contented eyes ; of a little boat gliding over the moon- 
lit water ; and of the sweep of the tide among the reeds. 
A waking dream more disturbing than the dream of 
Charlie’s sleeping moments — a dream which did not 
fade with the coming of the new day. 


XXII 


r T'HE summer waned, and with the finish of Au- 
^ gust the first of Beatrice’s “special cases” was 
wiped off the list. Towards the end of the month 
Mrs. Rogers died. She had been dying for so long 
— had been “given up,” and rallied, and been “given 
up” again, until Beatrice had come to believe that 
death in its reluctance to separate the old couple was 
holding back until it could claim them both. And then 
unexpectedly one day James came home with the news 
that she was gone. 

James appeared upset. He had been fond of the old 
couple, and his sorrow was for the husband who was 
left alone and inconsolable. He made no appeal to 
Beatrice, but she knew instinctively what he wished 
her to do and did not like to propose. This was the 
difficult part of the task which she had undertaken — 
the continuing sadness for which James had prepared 
her at the beginning — this helpful ministry to a 
stricken heart that knew no ties, had no friends other 
than the unequal friendship of the vicarage. 

“Do you think it would add to his distress if I 
went so soon to see him?” she asked. 

He looked at her with quick appreciation. 

“I hoped you would suggest going,” he said. “You 
are sure you don’t mind?” 

She smiled faintly, without answering. 

199 


200 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“It would cheer him considerably/’ he said. “Poor 
old chap! I left him sitting there before the empty 
grate — just feeling and grieving.” 

Beatrice turned away abruptly, and went upstairs 
to fetch her hat. “Sitting before the empty grate — 
just feeling and grieving.” Feeling and grieving . . . 
the tragedy of hopeless sorrow was depicted in the 
words. 

In the mellow warmth of the twilight Beatrice set 
out across the fields on her vague errand of comfort. 
It was difficult to realise that the old sufferer was 
gone. She had been with her on the previous after- 
noon, and had left her bright and smiling, looking 
forward with pleasurable anticipation to the shorten- 
ing of the days and the cosy comfort of the firelight 
behind drawn blinds. The winter, when the wind 
rioted without and all was bright and warm within, 
in pleasing contrast to the swish of rain against the 
glass and the rattle of the wind outside the door, had 
been the best time of the year to this woman whose 
world lay centred in one tiny room. And the evenings 
would draw in and the long, savage winter nights 
come and find her gone, and only the old man there 
— sitting before the grate, feeling and grieving. 

Outside the cottage door Beatrice encountered Mrs. 
Morey. Mrs. Morey had been in and out all day, she 
stated, and was ’most wore off her legs. She wore 
the air of importance inseparable from these occasions ; 
but behind the importance was apparent a sense of 
injury; plainly some grievance overshadowed her 
usual complacent competence and general helpfulness. 

“ ’Er ought to a died this mornin’,” she complained. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


201 


“I’ve been in an’ out all day expecting the end; and 
’er was that obstroperous like — seemed as if ’er 
wouldn’t die. ’Er was all but gone before breakfast. 
Seein’ ’twas the end like, I sent for the undertaker, 
'an’ ’e come about eight; an’ ’er wasn’t gone then. ’E 
measured ’er though. ’Twasn’t worth his while cornin’ 
up again, an’ ’er all but gone. ’Er ’ad to be got into 
the shell pretty quick after ’er was dead, you see. The 
coffin come up just ’alf an hour after ’er went; an’ 
’er was put in an’ screwed down and all comfortable 
within the hour. So us didn’ dally over our part. 
’Twas ’er what kept things about. The ol’ man seems 
to ’ave gone daft like. He sets before the hearth an’ 
cries like a cheeld, an’ don’t notice nothing.” 

“It seems hard,” Beatrice said, “that after all those 
years together they couldn’t have gone together. He 
wished it” 

“I don’t see no sense in that,” Mrs. Morey argued. 
“Us don’t all come into the world together, us can’t 
expect to go out together. ’E’s got to bear the partin' 
same’s other folks.” 

Beatrice left her at the gate, and pushed open the 
door of the cottage without knocking, without think- 
ing of knocking; the picture of the old man sitting 
before the empty grate, daft-like and crying childishly, 
was so vividly before her that to have knocked, to have 
behaved in any conventional way, would have seemed 
to show a want of understanding. She therefore 
pushed the door softly, and entered softly, and stood 
for a moment startled by the dimness of the twilit 
interior, by the stillness. Instinctively she recalled 
another day drawing to its close, another room, hand- 


202 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


somer and dimly lit by a shaded lamp, but similar to 
this room in its deadly stillness, in its air of silence 
and unoccupation. And yet that room had not been 
unoccupied; nor was this; the living and the dead 
were both here. 

The sight of the coffin on its trestles — a lengthened 
shadow in the shadowy room — covered with a few 
white flowers, shocked her. She recovered from that; 
and her compassionate gaze shifted abruptly and found 
the old man, a shrunken figure, with dropped head 
between the hunched shoulders, and aimless hands 
resting open upon his knees. She went to him quickly, 
and put her arms about him, and drew the poor quiv- 
ering face to her shoulder and let him weep there 
against her neck. 

“Poor dear !” she said. “Poor dear ! . . . Just cry 
your heart out as you want to. I know. . . . Oh! I 
know how you feel.” 

He only vaguely apprehended what she said. Misery 
had deadened his understanding, and had decreased 
in a curiously unconscious way the distances which 
separated them. Sorrow and feeling are primitive 
emotions. He was sensible only of his grief ; of the 
comfort, the protective compassion of her encircling 
arms; of the human quality of this tender sympathy 
which, dropping all barriers, reached out to him in his 
sorrow with warm womanly kindness that bore no 
semblance to the formless shadow of sympathy con- 
tained in empty phrases, but stood for what it was, 
the generous impulse of a loving nature. And so he 
let his weary old head rest where she had placed it, 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


203 


and wept his heart out for its easement as she had 
bade him do. 

“Seems a’most as if I couldn’t bear it,” he whim- 
pered presently. “Never once in all these years ’ave 
’er left me for a night. I’ve asked the Lord time an’ 
again to take me too; but I ban’t wanted, seems so.” 

And then, after an interval : 

“I buried ’er foot along with ’er. I digged en up 
out o’ the garden an’ put en in the coffin; so when 
the last trump calls ’er’ll be ready and complete.” 

After a while Beatrice asked him if he had eaten 
recently ; and when he replied dully that he couldn’t 
swallow aught, she suggested a cup of tea. He thought 
he might take a dish o’ tay; and looked with wistful 
uncertainty towards the oil stove on which he cooked 
the frugal meals when the fire was not in use. 

“You leave it to me,” she said. “I’ll make it for 
you.” 

But she had to call upon him after all, being ignor- 
ant as to the working of an oil stove. Between them 
the water was boiled and the tea made; and Beatrice 
cut bread and butter into thin slices, and cut the slices 
into fingers, and smilingly tempted him to eat. He 
appeared better for the simple meal, light though it 
had been; he cried less, and talked to her reminis- 
cently about his old woman. She was always his old 
woman from the day when he had married her, a slip 
of a girl in her teens. 

Beatrice stayed with him until the light failed al- 
together, and the lamp had to be lighted and, rescuing 
the room from its obscurity, brought the coffin into 
prominence and the empty bed on which the sick 


204 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


woman had lain so long. It was like being in a room 
with ghosts. The old man looked about him uneasily 
when she rose to go, and shivered; and she saw the 
tears well to the red rims once more. 

“I wish ’e’d a sent it,” he muttered. “I didn’ seem 
to mind afore; but I wish now ’e’d a sent it.” 

“Sent what?” Beatrice asked, confronting him with 
her hand on the latch of the door. 

“The spirit to comfort me,” he answered. “Mr. 
Gervais ’e said something when ’e was leavin’ ’bout 
the spirit being sent to comfort me; an’ I been looking 
for that blessed liquor ever since. But I expect ’e’s 
forgot.” 

“You shall have it,” Beatrice said, and wondered 
what Mr. Gervais would think of this interpretation 
of his words of spiritual comfort. “I pass the shop. 
You shall have it within half an hour.” 

And as she went out and faced the summer dusk 
a smile shone in her eyes behind their sadness at the 
thought of the comfortable oblivion which her more 
material spirit would shortly bring. 

When she reached the vicarage supper was in prog- 
ress; but no one commented on her lateness; nor did 
they put any questions to her. They were all curi- 
ously reticent in regard to this death, behaving almost 
as if it concerned them in an intimate and personal 
manner. This living in other people’s sorrows was a 
further fresh experience for her. 

Later she encountered her cousin in the hall just 
going out. He paused in the act of reaching for his 
hat to speak to her. 

“I can’t try over that song to-night,” he said. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


205 


“No,” she replied. And added, “You are going 
out?” 

He stood for a moment with his hat in his hand; 
then he opened the door while he answered: 

“Yes; I am going to the old man.” 

“To sit with him?” She looked surprised. 

“I can’t let him watch through the night alone,” 
he said. “I’ve got that picture of him in my brain 
. . . sitting before the hearth.” 

She followed him to the door and stood on the 
step and looked after him as he ran down the short 
path to the gate. 

“Good-night, Jim,” she called into the darkness. 

She wondered when his cheery response came back 
to her listening ears what James would make of the 
particular brand of spirit she had sent to comfort the 
old man’s stricken soul. 


XXIII 


TX7MTH the waning of summer Beatrice’s cricket 
* * team became more and more indifferent in re- 
spect to the payment of weekly subscriptions, and 
developed a sudden and overwhelming enthusiasm for 
football. Beatrice was elected secretary for the newly 
formed football club. James had given the goal posts, 
but the funds had yet to be raised. Since the choir 
was voluntary, the raising of funds presented no seri- 
ous difficulty; it was only a matter of an organised 
demand, and the payment of the weekly subscription 
which amounted to a halfpenny each member. 

With the presentation of the goal posts the weekly 
subscriptions started to come in again with pleasing 
regularity. David Hopkins had been unanimously 
elected captain of the football as well as of the cricket 
team, this by virtue of his position as senior chorister, 
and in tacit recognition of Miss Ashleigh’s liking for 
him. The boys recognised that Dave was the favour- 
ite, and oddly they did not appear to resent this. David 
had won his way to Beatrice’s heart when, as a voice 
under her window, she had heard him singing on the 
night of her arrival in Wedgemere. But her liking 
did not blind her to his faults. She was rather more 
critical of his behaviour than of that of the rest; and 
he was a very human boy. 

James on one occasion was privileged to be an un- 
206 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


207 


suspected witness of the chastisement of David at the 
secretary’s hands. The little scene, revealing her in 
an altogether new aspect, an inflexible, severe, entirely 
just aspect, impressed him curiously, and so 'startled 
him that, although aware that he was eavesdropping, 
he could not for the life of him make his presence 
known. 

He had blundered upon the scene inadvertently, 
and discovered her in the lobby where the boys kept 
their cricket and football gear. She stood near the 
outer door with her back to the passage along which 
James had come; and the boy faced her, nervous and 
sheepish, with his head down, the colour coming and 
going in his cheeks. James stood still, surprised. They 
neither of them saw him, and he paused for a space 
in the dimness of the passage, feeling trouble in the 
air and curious as to the cause. 

David had been detected outside the gate smoking; 
and Beatrice, who discouraged these habits in her team, 
was demanding the cigarette which at the moment was 
burning a hole in his trouser pocket, whither he had 
thrust it at sight of her with disingenuous intent to 
deceive. Rather to James’ surprise, the boy after a 
certain hesitation reluctantly drew forth the discol- 
oured end of cigarette and held it out on his open 
palm. With an exclamation of disgust Beatrice threw 
it among some evergreens bordering the path. 

“You promised me you wouldn’t smoke,” she said 
severely. “Why did you promise that if you didn’t 
intend to keep your word?” 

“I did mean to give it up,” he said; “but it isn’t 


208 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


easy when once you’ve drawn it into your lungs like 
what I ’ave.” 

“Don’t talk to me like that,” she said. “Does your 
father know you smoke?” 

“No. ’E’d give me a lacing if ’e did.” 

“Then the next time I catch you at it, I will let him 
know.” 

“You won’t catch me no more,” he assured her, 
with the conviction of one resolved upon added caution 
in future. “Somebody give me the fag. I only ’ad 
three whiffs at it.” 

“What did I promise you,” she asked, “if I caught 
you smoking?” 

He retreated a step or two, and put up a defensive 
hand. 

“I don’t break my promises, David. Come here.” 

For a moment he hesitated. He was looking fright- 
ened. Also he looked, the watcher observed, furtively 
towards the gate. It was a toss up whether he did 
not make a bolt for it. Beatrice’s discipline, however, 
was greater than her cousin suspected. 

“You won’t mark my face?” he said anxiously. 

“I shall endeavour to,” returned the inflexible voice, 
which James scarcely recognised with its note of in- 
sistent displeasure. 

“They'll want to know at ’ome what done it,” he 
said. 

“Then I hope you will tell them the truth.” 

There was something so relentless in the voice, 
something so expectant in the waiting pause, that 
James found himself holding his breath in the dim- 
ness, almost as though his own ears burned in ex- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


209 


pectation of being boxed. It hardly surprised him 
to see the boy suddenly step forward, head erect, and 
fixed as though glued to his shoulders, his arms hang- 
ing straight at his sides. It did not surprise him be- 
cause he felt that in the same circumstances he should 
act exactly as the boy was acting; evasion was out 
of the question; but it did surprise him that Beatrice 
should strike the proffered cheek, and strike it fairly 
hard. Had such a cheek been presented to him for 
punishment he could not have raised his hand. James 
winced as the boy winced, his face even flushed in 
sympathy with the childish face, which, white before, 
turned crimson under the indignity and the smart of 
the blow. 

The boy swung round on his heel without a word 
and marched off ; and James, with detection imminent, 
stood hesitating and uncertain, waiting for Beatrice 
to turn and discover his presence. Before, however, 
she had time to turn, David Hopkins was back again 
confronting her, with blue embarrassed eyes lifted to 
her astonished gaze. 

“I’m sorry I done it,” he said in a strangled voice, 
and jerked out the further confession which it scarcely 
surprised her to hear. “I done it last Saturday too 
when you smelt me and I said I’d been sittin’ next a 
chap what smoked.” 

Instantly upon uttering this confession he prepared 
for flight; but Beatrice was too quick for him. She 
caught his arm and detained him forcibly. James felt 
almost as uncomfortable as the boy; he feared, as 
David feared, that she meant to chastise him further; 
and he felt somehow that it wasn’t playing the game. 


210 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“You didn’t ought to hit me for that,” the boy ex- 
postulated, with a wary eye on her hand. 

Her response to this was to seize him by the shoul- 
ders and draw him to her and kiss him; and James, 
becoming tardily aware that he had no right what- 
ever to be observing these things, quietly withdrew 
and retired to the dining-room and waited for her 
there. 

A few minutes later she entered to discover him 
standing upon the hearthrug doing nothing. His air 
of leisurable inactivity surprised her; he looked as 
though he might have stood there doing nothing for 
hours instead of rather under five minutes. He looked 
up at her entrance with an inquiring smile. 

“Disengaged at last?” he said. 

“Yes,” she answered. She advanced to the window 
and threw it open. “I have been pouring the vials of 
my wrath on the head of David Hopkins.” 

“You brought the weight of your hand on his head, 
I know,” he said. 

She swung round and looked at him with astonishd 
eyes. Then she laughed. 

♦ “James — you sinner ! — you have been watching me.” 

“Do you think that I deserve to have my ears boxed 
too?” he asked. 

“I do. It was inexcusable.” 

“The temptation was great,” he pleaded. “Do you 
usually mix your bitter with sweet? — like a Gregory 
powder followed by jam.” 

Beatrice laughed again. 

“I hit him so hard,” she said; “and he really took 
it awfullv well.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


211 


“It wouldn’t surprise me,” James continued, “to 
hear that you had followed up the jam with cake.” 

“I did,” she assented, looking amused. “He liked 
the cake best.” 

“That’s the irony of things,” he responded. “When 
we can have jam we don’t appreciate it; when we can 
appreciate it we are not allowed it. I think it shows 
well for your authority when a boy of twelve walks 
up to receive a box on the ears like that. After all, 
he needn’t have taken the punishment.” 

“Perhaps not,” she allowed. “He needn’t either 
have confessed to telling me a lie. How about their 
sense of honour now, James?” 

“Haven’t you perhaps instilled that into them?” 
he said. “You’ve done wonders with your boys, Bee 
— with that particular boy, at least. You have taught 
him to be fond of you. That’s half the battle. How 
are the funds looking up?” 

“They are looking down at present,” she answered, 
feeling oddly disconcerted at this unexpected familiar- 
ity with her name ; he had never addressed her in that 
way before. “The football cost seven and six, and 
now they want a match ball. When that is bought 
we are faced with a deficit. I think I can persuade 
the Lawrences to give the ball.” 

“So you aren’t tired of your team yet?” 

“No. It isn’t all unalloyed joy though. They broke 
my bicycle pump yesterday in blowing up the foot- 
ball, and appeared quite aggrieved that I should con- 
sider it their fault rather than the pump’s. Every- 
thing I possess seems to belong to them by right of 


212 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


partnership. I am grateful that they don’t ask me 
to blow up the ball for them — they expect me to keep 
the cricket bag in good repair. But they trust me 
implicitly with the funds.” 

James laughed. 

“You are very tolerant where boys are concerned,” 
he said. “That comes of having brothers, I suppose ; 
you understand them. It isn’t only boys you under- 
stand,” he added, and scrutinised her- reflectively. “I 
wonder where you get your wide sympathy? Do you 
realise what a place you have made for yourself here? 
. . . how greatly you would be missed if you went 
away?” 

“Just temporary missing,” she said, and sat down 
at the table and played with the fringe of the cloth. 
“I haven’t made myself essential to anyone.” 

“Are you sure of that?” he asked. “I know some- 
one who could contradict that — someone to whom life 
would appear fairly blank without your bright, in- 
spiring presence. You have made yourself more neces- 
sary than you think.” 

She glanced up at him with a quick smile. 

“You mean the old man,” she said, and shook her 
head. “You’re wrong. He’d miss me, of course; but 
you come first there. You come first always — except 
in the case of my tiny namesake. The baby is more 
mine than yours. I’m not really jealous, James; but 
I think that’s why I love the baby best. . . . I’m first 
there. With all the others it’s you.” 

James laughed pleasantly, without a trace of con- 
ceit. His popularity was won, not sought after; and 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


213 


it pleased without inflating him. But she was wrong 
in her surmise. When he had spoken of her indis- 
pensability to the happiness of another, old Rogers 
had not been in his thoughts. 


XXIV 


A UTUMN passed and was succeeded by a par- 
ticularly bitter winter. Frost set in early. Snow 
lay on the ground in December, and the winds were 
very keen. Much distress prevailed in Wedgemere; 
and as a consequence the calls upon the vicarage were 
numerous. The vicar was possessed of private means, 
and the tastes of his family being simple, much was 
given away in charity — given ungrudgingly, and with- 
out expectation of, or desire for, thanks. 

To Beatrice a hard winter had meant in the past 
winter sports, big fires and social gatherings, and gen- 
eral gaiety. She had not realised the suffering which 
bitter weather brings to those who have no means of 
fighting it. To learn that people sewed brown paper 
between their thin blankets for the sake of the added 
warmth was a painful revelation to her. She had 
not known before that cold can hurt; that poverty 
hurts; that it is not merely a vaguely interesting con- 
dition* which has no actual existence, or, if it exists, 
is comfortably taken in hand by the State. It pained 
her too to observe, despite her relations’ unquestion- 
able generosity, the distinction made between those 
who belonged to the church and those who were with- 
out the pale. It seemed to Beatrice that this urgent, 
insistent cry for help was so human that it was en- 
titled to a prompt human response; also it seemed to 
214 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


215 


her unnecessary that these applicants for assistance 
should be obliged to lay bare their intimate private 
concerns before getting the help they required. They 
were poor and in straits; surely it was only right that; 
those more fortunate should give — that the giving 
should not be done after the manner of a favour? 
But the church demanded not only the proof of need 
but of worthiness. Small wonder that so many hypo- 
crites stand open-handed before the poor box. 

There was a pleasanter side to the winter — a side 
which was equally amazing, and quite as novel to 
Beatrice — the local effort to provide social entertain- 
ment. There was a concert of doubtful quality given 
by the Y. M. C. A., and a conversazione organised 
by the Girls’ Friendly. Mrs. Ashleigh was patroness 
of both entertainments; and Beatrice, curious, inter- 
ested, occasionally bored, accompanied her aunt and 
sat on the platform with the elect and watched the 
general enjoyment. Conversazione was a euphony for 
dancing and games. 

At the Y. M. C. A. concert she took part. She sang, 
and played James’ accompaniments when he sang — 
an act which led to much whispering and nudging 
and the interchange of significant glances. The parish 
was of one mind that Mr. Ashleigh would marry his 
cousin. 

Later there were parties for the Bible classes and 
the Church Lads’ Brigade; and Mrs. Ashleigh enter- 
tained all the Sunday-school teachers, the choir, and 
other parish helpers to supper. 

Lastly, and most important in Beatrice’s opinion, 
was a New Year Eve dance which the Lawrences 


216 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


were giving. They had guests staying in the house 
for the Christmas week, and on the day of the dance 
an unexpected cousin arrived without invitation, and 
was welcomed as an extra man. 

The New Year Eve dance proved a source of vexa- 
tion between Beatrice and her relations. They were 
all opposed to her going; she felt that instinctively, 
though neither her uncle nor her aunt offered any 
verbal remonstrance. Their silence, the way in which 
they ignored the subject, was eloquent in itself. Had 
they asked her categorically to decline the Lawrences’ 
invitation she would have felt constrained to accede to 
their wish, but to renounce pleasure on unspoken con- 
demnation alone made no sort of appeal to her. James’ 
attitude was particularly annoying. He appeared in 
a lofty, injured way to regard her acceptance as a 
breach of faith with himself. Only a few days before 
the arrival of the invitation he had been talking to her 
with eager enthusiasm of the New Year Eve service 
to be held in the church, a midnight festival which 
he -and the organist were labouring untiringly to make 
a choral success. James was very anxious that Bea- 
trice should attend the service. He discussed the mu- 
sical part with her and invited suggestions. 

“You will enjoy the singing,” he had said, taking 
her attendance for granted. 

“Why hold a midnight service on New Year Eve?” 
she had asked. “I thought only Papists did that. 
What is it for?” 

He had looked at her in surprise, and answered 
in his quiet way : 

“To begin the New Year righteously; to pray for 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


217 


help to continue through it worthily; to ask forgive- 
ness for the sins committed during the year that is 
past.” 

“It doesn’t sound very cheery,” she had responded, 
and had laughed when she caught his earnest, puzzled 
look. 

And now she had decided in preference of the dance; 
and James was feeling both displeased and hurt. He 
was more distressed than the matter would seem to 
warrant; though oddly he had not once sought to dis- 
suade he** during the only time when opposition would 
have been effective: he had let the days slip by with- 
out speaking, until it was New Year Eve and the time 
for speaking was past. 

That night to which he had looked forward so 
pleasantly found him disquieted and disproportionately 
grieved. Twice while Beatrice was upstairs dressing 
for the dance he wandered into the hall with some 
idea of evading her, of getting away before she came 
down, gay, indifferent, provocative, dressed in un- 
familiar clothes that would emphasise the difference 
between his life and hers; and each time he returned 
to the drawing-room to await her appearance. He 
paced the carpet while he waited with quick, impa- 
tient strides. Mrs. Ashleigh, sitting crocheting a 
child’s garment, laid down her work and gave her 
attention to James. 

“What makes you so unsettled?” she asked. “Are 
you vexed that Beatrice should go to this party to- 
night?” 

He paused in his uneasy pacing of the carpet and 
forced himself to a quieter mood. 


218 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“Yes,” he replied concisely. 

Mrs. Ashleigh’s lips closed in a hard, decisive man- 
ner peculiar to them when she was displeased. She 
took up her work again and deliberately counted 
stitches. 

“You and your father are very foolish where Bea- 
trice is concerned/’ she observed presently. “You are 
both over-anxious to please her in every way. Her 
own good sense should tell her that while she lives in 
a clergyman’s household she should conform with the 
ways of the house. If she hasn’t the sense to see that 
for herself your father should point it out to her.” 

“I had hoped she would attend the service to-night,” 
he said, instinctively defending her, even while hold- 
ing her blameworthy. “But it is natural she should 
be fond of parties. She is accustomed to that sort 
of thing.” 

“She is naturally frivolous,” Mrs. Ashleigh re- 
turned. “I think you should direct her thoughts to 
more serious things.” 

And then Beatrice came downstairs. James heard 
her cross the hall. He went to the door and threw it 
open, and stood on the threshold watching her with 
amazed eyes alight with admiration, his quickened 
pulses beating with feverish insistence. The sight of 
her loveliness dazzled him. He had never before real- 
ised the effect of full dress on a woman — a woman 
young and beautiful as Beatrice was. Her dress was 
unrelieved white ; and the full white throat and round- 
ed arms were but a warmer tint of the prevailing 
colour. In the gaslight the gold of her hair glinted 
like sunlight on water. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


219 


James' gaze fastened on the radiant figure, and his 
face grew more serious while he looked. There was 
an expression in his eyes that was something more 
than mere admiration, an expression that was en- 
tirely human and as old as life itself. 

Beatrice had paused outside the study door to speak 
to the vicar, who, coming forward, complimented her 
appearance. James caught the soft, gay laugh with 
which she received his words of approval, and then 
her voice growing suddenly grave, she asked : 

“Do you think I am doing wrong in going to the 
dance to-night?” 

“No play is harmful when the heart is pure,” the 
vicar replied, without a trace of rebuke in his tones. 
“If I asked you to come instead to the service, I be- 
lieve you would come.” 

“Yes,” she answered earnestly; “I would do that.” 

“That is just why I have not asked you,” he re- 
turned. “When you go to God's House it must be 
from a higher motive than the wish to please. Wher- 
ever you are, I have no fear that you will begin the 
New Ye~r unworthily. I like to see you happy.” 

She kissed him, and he went back into the study 
and closed the door behind him. He had seen his 
son waiting in the hall; and the expression on James' 
face troubled him. 

Beatrice saw James too when she turned round; 
she had not known before that he was there; and 
she put her hand through his arm and drew him back 
into the room. 

“Watching me again, James!” she admonished him. 
“I shall really be obliged to keep an eye upon you.” 


220 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Releasing his arm, she advanced to where her aunt 
sat, plying her needles inflexibly and with lowered 
gaze; she stood before her, deprecating and nervously 
smiling, an appealing rather than a confident figure. 
As before when she had gained her point against their 
unspoken disapproval she felt no sort of satisfaction 
in her success. 

“Are you displeased with me too?” she asked. 

Mrs. Ashleigh lifted reluctant eyes and, having lifted 
them, forgot her annoyance in admiration of the girl- 
ish loveliness before her. She, like her son, had not 
been prepared for anything quite so dazzling. The 
girl’s amazing beauty moved her, though differently, 
almost as powerfully as it moved James. 

“Beatrice, how nice you look!” she exclaimed. 

“It’s a last year’s gown,” Beatrice said doubtfully. 

“You will be the best-dressed girl in the room,” 
Mrs. Ashleigh asserted, with a certain pride in her 
voice. “I wish it had been some other night, so that 
James could have accompanied you.” 

James, silent and observant in the background, was 
wishing that also. Somehow the midnight service had 
lost much of its interest for him. He would not allow 
it, even to himself, but the absence of his cousin de- 
tracted immensely from his anticipatory pleasure. He 
had believed that his untiring zeal in working for this 
service had been actuated by the loftiest motives in 
the service of Christ and the Church; and now the 
stark fact was thrust upon his unwilling intelligence 
— whether he admitted it or not was immaterial — that 
this unflagging energy, this earnest enthusiasm, had 
been animated largely with a desire to capture the in- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


221 


terest and appreciation of this girl in whom for him 
the pleasure and the goodness of life were centred. 
With her absence from the festival, the beauty, the 
inner meaning of it all, was lost It was not the right 
way to look at things. James realised that, realised 
it so certainly that his conscience lashed him to an 
agony of remorse. He loved his cousin; he knew it, 
had known it for some time. The thing which trou- 
bled him was not his loving her, but the fear that he 
loved her unworthily. In allowing his carnal thoughts 
of her to come between him and his duty to and love 
of God, he recognised that he was dragging love from 
the height at which it should stand, and deliberately 
lowering it to the human level of physical attraction. 
James was experiencing passionate love for the first 
time; he wanted to keep the love and eliminate the 
element of passion; he might as reasonably have de- 
manded a fire without heat. 

James saw his cousin out to the waiting cab and 
put her into it. He was so silent, his face and manner 
were so moody as he held the cab door open and shut 
it upon her, that before pulling up the window Bea- 
trice leaned out and addressed him. 

“Why are you so angry with me?” she said. 

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. “I don’t 
think I am.” 

“Yes,” she insisted ; “you are. You are doing your 
utmost to spoil my evening.” 

“I don’t wish to,” he said. “I am a little disap- 
pointed. That’s it, I suppose.” 

He stood back and spoke to the driver. Beatrice 
pulled up the window with a jerk. She felt unac- 


222 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


countably vexed because he had not expressed the hope 
that she would enjoy the dance. And James, return- 
ing to the house, and shutting the outer door against 
the rush of cold air, felt vexed with himself in an 
equal degree for this very omission, which he could 
not, however, have uttered truthfully. He also felt 
immensely displeased with Beatrice. 


XXV 


POURING the short, cold drive to the Lawrences’ 
house, Beatrice, as a result possibly of the 
chilled, fusty atmosphere of the closed cab, as much 
as the chill of James’ manner, felt neither elation at 
the prospect of the party nor that quiet confidence in 
herself and in her world which had made similar 
entertainments in the past an assured success. Much 
of the pleasure of the evening was lost beforehand. 

She arrived at the house dispirited and cold, so 
little attuned to gaiety that as she mounted the steps 
it crossed her mind to wonder whether, after all, she 
would not have been as profitably occupied in attend- 
ing the service. The thought brought a smile to her 
lips. It occurred to her as significant of the changes 
in herself that such a speculation should have pre- 
sented itself. 

When she came downstairs, having taken off her 
wraps, she found Enid Lawrence waiting at the foot 
of the stairs. She stood with one hand on the newel, 
talking with a man who had his back to the staircase, 
her face upraised and more earnest in its expression 
than usual; and, as Beatrice descended, she became 
aware that the eyes in the upturned face were ob- 
serving her with open curiosity, while their owner 
murmured in a quick aside : 

“She is coming down now.” 

223 


224 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


At this intelligence her companion’s figure straight- 
ened itself, but he did not look round until Beatrice 
reached the level of the hall and paused on the lowest 
stair to return Enid’s greeting. Then he faced her 
fully. Beatrice, meeting his gaze, prepared in a sense, 
for she had known from the moment her glance fell 
upon the straight, soldierly back who it was waiting 
in the hall below, felt herself none the less colouring 
warmly before the searching scrutiny of the sombre 
eyes. Never in her most extravagant moments had she 
pictured meeting him quite like this. She had believed 
she would meet him again, some time, possibly in Lon- 
don, possibly also without preparation; but she had 
not thought of him in Devonshire. Enid had not 
mentioned his name to her; there had been nothing 
to connect him with Wedgemere — not even the belief 
that he might come and seek her out. 

“My cousin tells me you are old friends,” Enid 
said. 

And Beatrice felt instinctively from the speaker’s 
manner, from the very fact of her being there at the 
foot of the stairs with him waiting for her to descend, 
that the confidence had been more complete than was 
conveyed in that bare claim to friendship. She gave 
him her hand, oddly disconcerted and ill at ease. 

“It seems a long time since we met,” she said, an 
uncertain smile hovering about her lips. “I had no 
idea . . .” She broke off and glanced at Enid. “One 
is always tumbling against surprises.” 

“Teddy told me you were here,” he said. “I came 
down this afternoon.” 

Enid laughed. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


225 


“He wasn’t included in the invitations,” she ex- 
plained. “We never thought of him.” She gave a 
nod towards a door on the other side of the hall, 
good-naturedly desirous of assisting her cousin over 
the difficulties of the encounter. “Why not go into 
the study and have a chat? You can join the dancing 
when the music begins.” 

She turned away, leaving them alone together. 
Hurst looked towards the door of the study and then 
back at his silent companion, and his eyes, in eloquent 
contradiction of his impassive face and somewhat 
abrupt manner, fastened upon hers with a strong ap- 
peal in their steady gaze. 

“What do you say?” he asked. . . . “Shall we take 
advantage of that suggestion?” 

“I — if you wish,” she answered, and found her 
limbs moving mechanically in the direction indicated. 

“You must allow a little for my surprise,” she said, 
as she entered the room and watched him close the 
door after him before turning and facing her. “I 
did not expect to see you here. I had no idea you 
were related to the Lawrences.” 

“It’s very remote,” he said, seizing on any small 
commonplace to bridge the awkwardness of these first 
few minutes. “I’m not a cousin really, but a connec- 
tion of Mrs. Lawrence — just near enough to claim 
certain privileges as a member of the same family. I 
announced my arrival by wire this morning, and fairly 
electrified them, I believe. The hop, of course, was 
a surprise for me. I came down really to see you.” 

“Yes!” she said; and stood there, embarrassed and 
deeply stirred, playing with a large white fan she car- 


226 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


ried, realising the inadequacy of that bald response, 
and unable at the moment to think of anything to say. 

"It's ages since I saw you,” he added, pushing a 
low chair toward her, and taking another opposite 
when she had seated herself. “Do you remember, 
Beatrice, those days on the river? . . . ” He leaned 
nearer to her and scrutinised her attentively. “The 
freckle has vanished,” he said. “The sun doesn’t kiss 
you here.” 

“Not in December certainly,” she answered; and 
tried unsuccessfully to make her voice sound friendly 
and detached; despite her endeavour its tones were 
tremulous. Why need he speak of these things now? 

“December!” he said. . . . “Yes. It was summer 
then. I’ve thought of that last night on the river 
every night since. . . . I’ve thought of you. I’ve 
wanted to ask about you; and there was no one I 
could apply to for information. If I’d known you 
were here, I should have come before ; but no one told 
me. There has been a sort of conspiracy of silence. 

. . . But I’m not going to worry about that now. 
I’ve found you again — that’s good enough for me. I 
am awfully glad to see you, Beatrice — are you a little 
glad too?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, and stirred restlessly. 
“I am just a little afraid of looking back. . . . Life 
is so different now.” 

“How different?” he asked. 

Teddy had told him that she was growing puritani- 
cal; but she had always inclined to a somewhat more 
lofty view of life than the generality; he decided that 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


227 


her present surroundings possibly encouraged this nat- 
ural bent. 

“You’d understand if you lived here,” she answered 
evasively. “I can’t explain. It’s like being a vege- 
tarian after having killed in order to live — a flesh diet 
again would be too stimulating. I am growing accus- 
tomed to the simplicity; but I have not grown so ac- 
customed that any small thing — an excursion into the 
past, for instance — might not prove upsetting. I would 
rather avoid personalities, please.” 

“That’s just what we can’t avoid,” he said, with 
firm resolve, and was amazed to find himself plunging 
forthwith into the matter that was responsible for his 
being there, but which he had meant to lead up to 
gradually when she had got over her first surprise at 
seeing him. “The personal note comes into everything. 
It’s because of what you stand for to me that I am 
here ; it’s because you are the one woman in the world 
to me — the voice which speaks to me above the con- 
fusion of the many echoes — that I am here now. Your 
voice is dearer to me than any voice — your face is 
sweeter than any face in all the world. I love you. 
You know that. I’ve told you that. ... I want to 
marry you. I came down to ask you to marry me.” 

While he spoke, the music from the other room 
came to their ears across the width of the hall. Bea- 
trice rose, not for the purpose of joining the dancers; 
she was not sufficiently collected to face other eyes 
just then ; but because movement, action of some sort, 
was imperative. She stood, grasping the back of the 
chair, looking away from him, staring fixedly at the 
fire, at the flames leaping on the wide hearth, and at 


228 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


their reflection in the glazed white surface of the tiles. 

“Oh, don’t,” she said nervously. 

He came to her and stood beside her and put his 
arm about her shoulders. 

“But I want you,” he said. “I wanted you before 
— but I wasn’t free to come to you. I’m free now, 
Beatrice. . . . The — the difficulties I spoke of to you 
before, if you remember, they are — finished. It is an 
ugly tale, that — I’ll tell you if you wish to hear; but 
— I’d rather you didn’t know. . . . It’s all finished, 
anyhow. It’s behind me. It is not a creditable story. 
I’m ashamed of it. So long as it shadowed me I kept 
away from you; now it has smoothed itself out, and 
I came to you. ... I came as soon as I could.” 

He was conscious when he referred to the incident 
which had separated them of a stiffening of the girl’s 
whole body, of a growing aloofness in her bearing. 
She did not withdraw from him, but her attitude 
and her manner were alike unresponsive. Her eyes, 
staring at the leaping flames, saw dully through a mist 
of tears. 

“Teddy told me about the difficulty,” she said ; and 
the flamrs grew more fantastic, more distant and un- 
real to her blurred sight. “I think you ought to have 
told me yourself ; it would have been — more honest.” 

His dark face flushed, and his surprised eyes, scan- 
ning her features questioningly for a moment, against 
his volition sought the carpet and fell to studying its 
pattern unconsciously. He was more dismayed and 
astonished by her admission than she supposed. Ed- 
ward Ashleigh had given him no reason to suspect 
that he had confided that story to his sister. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 229 


“I thought of telling you,” he confessed; “but I 
wasn’t sure you’d understand. I’d have taken the risk 
if I had guessed Teddy would get before me,” he 
added, with resentment. “I believed he was my 
friend.” 

“He is your friend,” she answered quietly. “At 
the same time, he is my brother, and regards that a 
greater responsibility.” 

“Yes,” he said, and bit his lip, unable to dispute 
the soundness of this argument. “But — he has preju- 
diced you. It wasn’t fair to me. He ought to have 
given me the choice of telling you myself.” 

“You had the choice,” she reminded him. “You 
didn’t take it. But I am not prejudiced. I’m just — 
sorry.” 

“That means,” he said harshly, “that you hold me 
entirely blameworthy — that you condemn me on the 
bald facts. You won’t listen to my side.” He gave 
a short, angry laugh. “You realise, of course, that 
I have no case to present. A man, unless he is a cad, 
doesn’t seek to justify himself in an affair of this 
nature.” 

He walked away from her and took his stand by 
the hearth, leaning with his arm on the mantel-shelf, 
one foot on the marble curb. 

“I wish I had known before I came down,” he said, 
tapping the curb with an impatient foot. 

He did not give expression to the question in his 
mind which framed the wonder why Edward Ashleigh 
had confided to him his sister’s address. He had taken 
it at the time as a permission to visit her; but now he 
failed to understand the reason for the confidence. 


230 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Abruptly he ceased to wonder, and gave his whole at- 
tention to Beatrice — to the urgency of his desire for 
her, despite the hopeless sense of defeat which gripped 
him in face of her quiet, restrained disapproval. 

“Look here, Beatrice,” he began. “It isn’t any sort 
of use trying to explain. One can’t explain these 
things. I don’t wish to attempt to justify myself, but I 
do want to say here and now that since I knew you I 
have been ashamed — filled with remorse. I’ve walked 
the straight path as far as it was humanly possible from 
the moment — not of our meeting, but of my first real 
interest in yourself. If I had known you earlier, this 
thing could never have happened. I drifted into it. 
When I came to know you I felt disgust with myself 
for this casual drifting into sin. One thinks lightly of 
it at the time; but a man hates impurity as much as 
a woman hates it when he meets love for the first time. 
My dear, I hate to soil your ears with these things — 
I hate myself when I recall them. I love you, Bea- 
trice. I want you. The question is, do you love me 
sufficiently to forgive the past and overlook it? That 
is the question I have come down to ask you.” 

He felt while he spoke almost glad that she knew 
the truth. It was better that she should know before- 
hand — better that he should not be forced to tell her, 
nor have overhanging him the fear that she would 
later discover it and recoil from him when such a 
recoil could only mean tragedy for both. But in his 
relief he lost sight of the fact that to Beatrice in the 
sudden shock of seeing him these things might assume 
disproportionate dimensions. She was not in a mood 
to regard them dispassionately. She was not tempera- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


231 


mentally constituted to suffer such revelations unmoved 
at any time. He would have been wiser had he given 
her time to recover from her surprise. When he fin- 
ished speaking, when he paused and looked to her for 
an answer, she avoided his eyes and deliberately looked 
away from him, looked about her vaguely at the un- 
familiar room, at the shadows lurking in the corners, 
and at the flickering of the firelight upon the heavy 
beamed ceiling; then, with a sound like a sob in her 
throat, she groped blindly for the door. 

“I can’t,” she said . . . “I can’t. I am narrow, I 
suppose — or perhaps I don’t love enough. ... I 
can’t.” 

And with nothing more, with only the distressful 
sound of that catching of the breath, she went swiftly 
out of the room and closed the door behind her. 


XXVI 


CTRANGELY, through the confusion of her 
^ thoughts as she ran upstairs and sought the pri- 
vacy of Enid’s bedroom, the knowledge that she had 
told her driver to return for her at one o’clock came 
to Beatrice with a sense of relief. Thus will unim- 
portant details assert themselves in moments of crisis. 
At the time of giving the order she had considered it 
too early; but with the dispiriting influence of James’ 
unspoken displeasure damping her enjoyment, she had 
cared so little for the party that she felt only regret 
for having come to it ; now she was glad that she had 
decided to leave early. She would go upstairs after 
supper and wait in the bedroom until the time for de- 
parture arrived. No one need notice when she left; 
she would slip away unobtrusively; afterwards she 
could explain her hurried departure and the omission 
of the usual formalities in any way that occurred to 
her; for the present she could think of nothing col- 
lectedly; her mind was a distressed tangle of painful 
impressions. And behind the pain and the resentment 
of these distresses, behind the repugnance she was con- 
scious of feeling, was a sense of hopeless insufficiency, 
a limitless desire for this man who had helped her to 
realise the romance of life, and had then destroyed 
the illusion with clumsy ruthlessness. She bitterly re- 
sented that he had the power to make her suffer so — 
232 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


233 


that against her volition she should love him in spite 
of all, though in her inexperienced and somewhat 
limited judgment he was so little worthy to be loved. 

While she remained in the bedroom trying to com- 
pose her features sufficiently to venture among the 
other guests without the fear of exciting comment, 
Enid Lawrence awaited her entry with Hurst, and felt 
puzzled and increasingly concerned at their non-ap- 
pearance. When later Beatrice entered the room alone, 
she made her way to her quickly, threading a passage 
between the crush, and asked in an undertone: 

“Where is Fred?” 

“I left him,” Beatrice replied, “in the study.” 

“Oh, Beatrice!” Enid said, reproach in her tones. 

Then she noticed the other’s pale preoccupation, the 
pain and the tension of her look; and she realised that 
here was something which she did not understand — 
something which sprang neither from caprice nor cold- 
ness — something which hurt. She put a hand within 
Beatrice’s arm. 

“I’m sorry,” she said simply. 

That, it seemed to Beatrice, was the burden of her 
own thoughts, the reflex of her innermost feeling — 
sorrow — regret for the waste of emotion, for the need- 
lessness of this pain which dragged at her heart and 
reopened all the distresses of the past. He ought 
never to have come down; it had served only to re- 
vive the memories which were almost forgotten, and 
which it were better to forget. 

She suffered Enid to draw her into the room. Some- 
one provided her with a programme, which she re- 
linquished to the first comer, and afterwards watched 


234 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


it filling up with detached interest and apathetic eyes. 
When it came to the second half she declined making 
any engagements; she would be leaving after supper, 
she stated. 

As the evening wore on and Hurst made no appear- 
ance her mind was relieved. She had dreaded more 
than anything the thought of facing him before these 
gay, unsuspecting people — before Enid, who was not 
unsuspecting, who was undoubtedly the recipient of 
her cousin’s confidence; it would have been impossible 
to maintain an outwardly smiling indifference had he 
been present; it was not easy in any circumstance to 
carry oneself as though nothing were amiss. And 
with Enid’s perplexed and vaguely troubled eyes 
searching for her through the moving throng — seek- 
ing her out — watching her. . . . The effect of those 
watchful, anxious eyes was disturbing; it had the re- 
sult of making her painfully self-conscious, so that 
she wondered whether traces of emotion were apparent 
in her face, whether any of her partners detected some- 
thing unusual in her manner. For the greater part the 
men were strangers to her; and if they noticed any- 
thing, it was, as one man expressed it, that the best- 
looking girl in the room was a trifle dull. 

She made her escape after supper. She went up- 
stairs and got into her cloak and waited for the ar- 
rival of the cab. She did not hear it drive up; the 
music drowned the sound of the wheels; it was some 
time later that a maid discovered her in the bedroom 
and told her it was waiting. She went downstairs, 
hoping to get away unseen; a couple sitting out on 
the wide landing paused in the middle of a mild flirta- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


235 


tion to look after her, and two men, smoking cigarettes 
in the hall, spoke to her as she passed them and re- 
monstrated with her for leaving so early. One of 
them went with her to the top of the steps. It had 
been his intention to see her into the cab, but at the 
foot of the steps someone else waited presumedly for 
that purpose, since, when she appeared, he stepped 
more fully into the light and opened the cab door and 
stood beside it. 

“I see you are all right,” Beatrice’s escort said, and 
shook hands with her, and turned back wondering 
where on earth the fellow had sprung from, and how 
it was he had not seen him before. 

Beatrice walked down the broad, low steps between 
the lines of gaily coloured lanterns. She drew her 
wraps more closely about her as she faced the cold 
of the early morning. The air struck chill ; her 
thoughts struck chill; the winter of discontent envel- 
oped everything. During that brief journey from the 
warmed and lighted house to the cold, musty interior 
of the unlighted cab many things flashed through her 
mind. She saw, not as a drowning person is sup- 
posed to see the incidents of his life unfolding before 
his mental vision, but certain incidents in the life of 
the man who waited for her at the foot of the steps, 
and their effect in relation, less to herself than to the 
woman who had discarded husband and home and 
honour for his sake. This woman who had given up 
everything for him had a claim on him ; to ignore it, 
to thrust it aside, was unthinkable. If she had sinned, 
she had also suffered, and she must have loved. Bea- 
trice was incapable of jealousy; and disloyalty to one’s 


236 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


sex arises chiefly from this passion. This woman had 
not set out deliberately to injure her; yet, selfish and 
weak and vicious, she had injured her grievously 
though unconsciously. In giving rein to unlawful de- 
sires the security of others is inevitably threatened. 

When she reached the path Beatrice stood still and 
held out a hand to Hurst in silent farewell. He dis- 
regarded this dismissal and followed her determinedly 
into the cab. 

“I’m coming with you ,” he said, as he got in and 
jerked the door to upon himself. “I’ve things to say 
to you. I can’t part from you like this. Don’t you 
see,” he said, as she maintained silence, and he looked 
towards her averted face, which showed dim and un- 
certain in the obscurity against the dingy upholstery, 
like a mask, featureless and without expression, “that 
it’s impossible for me to go back to-morrow and leave 
matters at this stage? I must have a few last words 
with you. When I came down I didn’t think — I hoped 
I’d be staying on. Now I’m going back — by the first 
train in the morning . . . that’s why I thrust myself 
on you now. I must have further talk with you. You 
are blaming me . . . I’m blameworthy, I know. I’m 
not seeking to justify myself — only it all happened 
before I knew you.” He felt it necessary to insist on 
this point. “I want to make you understand that. If 
I had known you first it couldn’t have happened.” 

He put out a hand and caught at her loose sleeve, 
and found and held her gloved, unresponsive fingers. 

“Beatrice, I love you,” he mumbled, and it sounded 
in her shuddering ears in the darkness almost as 
though he sobbed. “I love you so. Haven’t I a 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


237 


chance? — a remote chance? You care for me. I’ll 
swear to that. Can’t you give me a word of hope? I’ll 
wait — as long as you wish. But don’t say no outright, 
I” — he dragged her nearer to him — “I couldn’t stand 
it. Sweet, I want you so.” 

He attempted to kiss her; he struggled with her 
in the darkness. She put her hands on his shoulders 
and pushed him back, and drew further into her cor- 
ner, sitting upright, white and aloof and dignified, 
baffling and exasperating him by her silence and un- 
responsiveness. He could not get at her, could not 
move her; his appeal, his passion, both failed before 
her quiet remoteness. 

“I did not think you were so cold,” he said bitterly. 
“I begin to believe you don’t care. ... It is impos- 
sible that you should care and remain so indifferent. 
You’ve forgotten — that’s it. . . . You did care once. 
And now you have forgotten. Possibly there is some- 
one else. . . .” 

He paused and loosened her hand and sat back, 
considering this possibility. 

“There is someone else,” he finally decided. 

“No,” Beatrice answered, stung into speech at last. 

“Then, if there is no one else, if you really care, 
why are you so cold? — so hard and unforgiving? 
It — it’s inhuman.” 

“Perhaps that’s what I am,” she said quietly. “I’ve 
loved you — I do love you — but not blindly. My love 
demands much — everything or nothing — because, you 
see, it gives everything. And I can’t have you — all 
of you. You’ve belonged to someone. . . . You be- 
long to her still. She has a claim on you. It doesn’t 


238 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


matter that you refuse to recognise that claim — it’s 
there. I see it — she sees it. It doesn’t seem to me to 
matter that the world perhaps, and you certainly, do 
not see it. I’m looking at it from her point of view 
— and mine. That may be a limited outlook, but it 
counts. It is her view that is of the first importance ; 
it bears the greatest significance. I’m trying to see 
this thing as she sees it.” 

“My God!” he cried. “You aren’t even just. You 
might quite as reasonably look at it from my view. 
Why should your bias be in her favour? You know 
nothing of her. Believe me, in these cases it isn’t al- 
ways the man who is to blame.” 

“I blame both of you equally,” she said. “But in 
these cases it is the woman who is the chief sufferer; 
and, in my opinion, that is unjust.” 

“Well, anyway,” he said, “you are making me suffer 
now.” 

“I don’t wish that,” she said gently. “I didn’t mean 
to hurt you. All that is so purposeless.” 

“You are hurting me,” he insisted, “with every word 
you say. You don’t give me a chance. You blame 
me out of hand. You won’t hear reason. I’ve told 
you all that part of my life is behind me. You won’t 
even allow me to bury it decently. You won’t let 
me forget.” 

“Has she forgotten?” she asked. 

He made an impatient sound with his lips. 

“I haven’t seen her for over a year,” he replied 
bluntly. “I don’t suppose I shall see her again — ever. 
I don’t wish to. . . . Why need you drag her into 
this?” he asked, as a resentful afterthought. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


239 


“Because,” she answered in low, controlled tones, 
“she is there between us. She has to be reckoned 
with. I’ve always hated anything like that — hated it 
as one hates disease — instinctively. I am not jealous: 
it is something more personal than that, more over- 
whelming. If I had known what I now know when 
we first met I should have been spared the pain of 
caring for you.” 

“You mean,” he said, almost roughly, “that, know- 
ing, you can’t tolerate me even ?” 

She turned away her face, her eyes suffused with 
tears. 

“Toleration would not satisfy either of us,” she 
said. 

“No,” he agreed, and was silent for a space. 

“So that’s the finish of things!” he said, and un- 
expectedly stopped the cab, and got out in a darkened, 
unfamiliar world, and sought, with ultimate success 
after many uncertainties, to find his way back along 
the shadowed perplexities of the winding country road. 

That was the finish — the end of a dream. 


XXVII 


B EATRICE got back, not as she had expected to a 
darkened, silent house — almost in the pained pre- 
occupation of her mind she would have preferred to 
arrive unnoticed and go straight to her room without 
meeting anyone — but, as the cab stopped before the 
house, where a light showed in the hall and also in 
the drawing-room, the front door opened, and she 
saw James’ figure in the aperture, a dark shadow 
against the brightness of the gaslit hall. 

“I did not expect to find you up,” she said. “It 
must be two o’clock.” 

“Are you the only privileged person?” he asked, 
with a faint smile. 

He opened the door of the drawing-room and fol- 
lowed her in, and taking up the tongs mended the 
fire, which had burnt low. It was cold driving, and 
she looked weary; he reproached himself for thought- 
lessness in not having made a cheerful blaze to wel- 
come her return. But he had not expected her back 
so soon. 

“Come nearer,” he said. “There is considerable 
warmth in these dull embers though they may not 
look cheery. I’ll soon have it burning brightly. I 
haven’t been in long, and I didn’t think of the fire.” 

“Never mind the fire,” she said. “What has hap- 
pened to take you out so late?” 

240 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


241 


“The Ridleys sent over,” he explained, “soon after 
you left. The message was for you, but you weren’t 
here. The baby had convulsions. It is pretty bad, 
poor little mite! I told Mrs. Ridley you would be 
over early in the morning.” 

She stirred restlessly, and looked up at him with 
such sorrow-filled eyes that he wondered rather why 
she should feel the child’s illness so grievously. He 
knew she was fond of the little thing that was named 
after herself, but he had not thought that the loss of 
the child would affect her so deeply. 

“They are sitting up with it, I suppose?” she said. 

“The mother, of course. And the district nurse 
was there when I left. They can’t do much, though.” 

She pulled her cloak up about her neck and fas- 
tened it. 

“I am going over now,” she said. 

He attempted to dissuade her. 

“You can do no good, and you need rest. It will 
be time enough after breakfast.” 

“She may be dead before then,” she objected. 

“She may be dead now,” he answered. “In any 
case, you are fit only for bed.” 

“It’s such a little way,” she protested. “And I’d 
like to see her again. There’s just a chance. Let me 

go” 

“In that dress?” he expostulated. 

“Oh, my cloak covers that. And at this hour there 
is no one to see me. I want to go.” 

That settled it. Without further remonstrance 
James built up the fire in anticipation of their return, 
and went out to the hall and got into his overcoat. 


242 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“What an arbitrary person you are,” he said, as he 
slipped the latch-key in his pocket and shut the door 
quietly behind them. 

“I’m sorry to take you out again,” she said. 

“To perambulate the streets in the small hours isn’t 
creating a precedent for me any more than for your- 
self,” he answered. “Will you take my arm?” 

“No, thanks. My hands are fully occupied with my 
draperies.” 

He looked at the draperies in question, and caught 
sight of the white satin slippers showing beneath her 
skirt, and stopped abruptly in the pathway. 

“Beatrice!” he remonstrated. “What absurd slip- 
pers to be walking the streets in !” 

Halting also, she looked down at her feet with a 
forlorn little laugh. She felt the cold strike through 
the thin soles and through her thinner stockings. 

“What anxiety I am always causing you over my 
shoes,” she said. “I had forgotten them. Never 
mind; let us get on quickly.” 

James felt concerned, but he knew that she would 
never consent to go back and change. She had started 
to walk again; he found it necessary to quicken his 
pace in order to keep up with her. 

“I don’t know what my mother will have to say to 
this adventure,” he observed; “but I feel fairly cer- 
tain she won’t approve of it.” 

“She will say that you ought not to have allowed 
me to go.” 

He laughed ruefully. 

“That’s the irony of it. As though I could prevent 
you!” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


243 


“The little child draws me, James,” she said. 

And James, looking ahead along the silent street, 
past the mysterious darkness of unlit windows and 
houses, the inmates of which were asleep, drew closer 
to her in a companionable silence, which remained un- 
broken until they reached the Ridleys’ home. 

Things were much as James had left them. The 
nurse, bright-eyed, alert, extraordinarily wakeful, had 
just taken the child from a hot bath when they en- 
tered. She sat with it on her knee, wrapped in an old 
blanket, while Mrs. Ridley, with the weary stoicism 
of a mother of ten, tended the fire and kept the kettle 
boiling. She explained the case to Beatrice in a re- 
sentful manner, seeming to regard the baby’s delicacy 
as the deliberate act of some malicious unnamed per- 
sons to whom she referred vaguely as “they.” 

“She’s the only delikit child I’ve ’ad,” she com- 
plained — “delikit from the first, she’s been. . . . 
Overlooked, that’s about the size of it. An’ I knows 
pretty well who done it too. They knows I knows. 
Mr. Ashleigh, here, won’t allow there’s no overlook- 
ing; but my own brother was overlooked when a boy, 
an’ suffered awful with the fits. We tried everything, 
but ’e didn’t get a bit better. Mother did hear ’ow 
tyin’ a live toad round the throat for a week would 
cure them. We caught a toad an’ tied it round ’im ; but 
the fits was there the same. Then someone said as a 
dead man’s bone crushed to powder an’ given a little 
every day, would send ’em away. We got the bone an’ 
done it; but — bless you! — the fits was there just the 
same. Overlooked, ’e was. We found that out after- 


244 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


wards when the one what overlooked en died. What’s 
happened once can happen again.” 

“May I take her?” Beatrice asked, bending over 
the child in the nurse’s lap. 

“Lor’ ! give ’er to Miss Ashleigh,” Mrs. Ridley com- 
manded. “I’ve always said, since Mr. Ashleigh must 
needs christen ’er after you, that she belonged to you 
an’ to ’im.” 

Beatrice sat down before the fire, and, throwing 
back her cloak, sat with the baby in her arms; while 
Mrs. Ridley, forgetful of the kettle in the amazement 
of so unusual a sight as a lady in evening dress in her 
cottage, stared at the vision in gaping disapproval, and 
felt uncomfortable in the knowledge of the curate’s 
presence. 

“With Miss Ashleigh wearin’ only ’alf a bodice,” 
she explained afterwards to Nurse Creach, “it was 
most embarrassing ’aving gentlemen around.” 

Beatrice continued to nurse the baby until further 
convulsions seized it, whereupon Nurse Creach, taking 
the little writhing form from her relaxed arms, re- 
sorted to the usual remedies with a calm, bright effi- 
ciency that was only a little less remarkable than the 
mother’s apathetic grief. Beatrice leaned over the 
bath. 

“Oh, Miss Creach !” she exclaimed breathlessly. 
. . . “Oh, Miss Creach! . . .” 

The district nurse looked at her, surprised. 

“It’s going out,” she said, in the matter-of-fact 
manner in which she might have referred to a gut- 
tering candle. 

She took the child out of the bath, wrapped it again 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


245 


in the blanket, and placed it in Mrs. Ridley’s unre- 
sponsive arms. 

“Overlooked . . . that’s what ’tis,” Mrs. Ridley 
muttered. “Us can’t do naught for it.” 

And then, the slow tears gathering in her eyes, they 
overflowed and fell in big drops upon the little bundle 
on her knee. 

Beatrice gathered up her cloak and fastened it. 
Even in her grief Mrs. Ridley was sufficiently alive 
to her surroundings to feel relieved thereat. The girl 
laid a hand upon one of hers, and bent down and kissed 
her namesake for the last time. It was obvious, even 
to her inexperience, that the child was dying. Wearily 
she turned away and left the cottage. James fol- 
lowed her. There was nothing that either of them 
could do; the nurse, in her callous efficiency, was of 
far greater use. Beatrice had been conscious of a 
furtive uneasiness in Mrs. Ridley’s bearing: she was 
not sure that her visit at such a time was not rather an 
intrusion. In any case, it had given no comfort; and 
Mrs. Ridley, entertaining dark doubts of Mr. Ash- 
leigh’s belief in overlooking, had derived no satisfac- 
tion from his presence either. Yet, had they stayed 
away, she would have resented this course as neglect- 
ful. That amount of attention from the vicarage was 
due to her as the mother of ten children, all of whom 
were christened, and eight of whom attended the Sun- 
day school. She herself had no time for church, and 
her husband no inclination. That sort of thing was 
very well for the rich; but with ten children to look 
after, and a man to cook for, Sunday was no day for 
gallivanting. 


246 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Beatrice would have preferred to go straight to her 
room on returning to the vicarage; but James threw 
open the drawing-room door, where the fire blazed a 
cheery welcome, and pushed a low chair before it and 
settled her into the chair. 

“You are cold,” he said. 

He went out of the room and returned with a glass 
of wine, which he gave her to drink. 

“You look worn out,” he said kindly. 

The sympathy in his voice, his consideration, proved 
too much for Beatrice’s overwrought nerves. To 
James’ concerned amazement, and to her own discom- 
fit, she found herself crying weakly. Hot tears rose 
in her eyes and overflowed, and welled and overflowed 
again and ran down her white cheeks. She remained 
quite still, crying silently and staring into the fire. 
Possibly she hoped — though the hope was absurd — to 
escape detection. She realised, when James dropped 
on one knee beside her and took her chilly hands in his 
warm, comforting clasp, that he was conscious of her 
grief, that he desired to console her; that possibly he 
recognised as she did the futility of spoken comfort. 
In any case, he offered no verbal sympathy, but con- 
tinued to kneel beside her chair, clasping her chilled 
hands in a close, reassuring grip. 

“Something sad happens always to everyone I love,” 
she complained presently, in a tone of querulous bit- 
terness. “Life is sad. I’m so tired of it all.” 

Instinctively James felt that something besides the 
baby’s illness was affecting^her, something outside her 
present life. The thought came to him that perhaps 
the dance she had attended had stirred up memories of 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 247 


former days, and created in her a new discontent with 
her present surroundings. He did not wish to believe 
this, but it occurred to him that it was possible. 

“I wish/’ he said, with earnest impulsiveness, “that 
I could take every sorrow out of your life into mine/’ 

Swiftly she raised her tear-stained face, the tears 
arrested in their course, and looked at him with won- 
dering, dismayed eyes. A new quality in James’ voice, 
something in his eager gaze, in the protective warmth 
of his clasp, startled her. Like a doubt assailing a 
mind which has harboured no suspicion, the fear came 
to her that her cousin’s sympathy was less impersonal 
than she had believed. She knew, even before he told 
her, that James loved her. She was prepared for the 
confession which he made in the simple, straightfor- 
ward way in which he did most things. Strangely he 
seemed to have but little hope that his love would be 
returned. 

“Beatrice, I love you,” he said. “I don’t think that 
can surprise you greatly. It isn’t possible to live with 
you and not love you. I am afraid to ask if you love 
me — afraid to solicit so precious a gift . . . only 
without your love, life for me must remain empty. 
You have all my heart. Before I realised what wasi 
happening, the gift — such as it is — was yours.” 

“Oh, James, my dear!” she said, and drew her 
hands from his, and laid one of them upon his shoul- 
der as he knelt beside her chair with a display of sor- 
rowful affection that was rather chilling in its utter 
lack of any deeper emotion. “I am so sorry this has 
happened. I never thought. ... It isn’t my fault, 


248 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


James, that I have no love to give you. I gave all 
that before I knew you.” 

“I was afraid,” he said slowly, “that there might 
be someone. ... It wasn’t possible that before you 
came here you had not had encounters with men — in- 
teresting men. You’ve drifted into a backwater here; 
but you won’t stay in it. I’ve felt that somehow all 
along.” 

He got up and moved away and busied himself un- 
necessarily with the fire. Beatrice, her face white and 
bitter, rose too. 

“The man I love was at the dance,” she said; and 
in her effort at control her voice sounded flat and un- 
convincing. “We can never be anything to one an- 
other ; but I shall love him — always.” 

And then she went out of the room, and left James, 
sick with the bitterness of disappointment, looking into 
the fire, and seeing, not the bright heart of it, but his 
own lonely future reaching ahead endlessly — a dusky 
twilight of autumn days stretching away into the un- 
companioned winter of old age. 

He threw himself into the chair where she had sat, 
and dropped his head on his hand and thought — 
thought far into the dawn. Time and place had no 
meaning for him. For the first time in his life he 
gave himself up entirely to the abandonment of per- 
sonal grief. The church clock, chiming the hour of 
five, roused him : it struck discordantly upon his jaded 
nerves. He drew his hand wearily across his brow, 
and sat up straighten Through the unshuttered win- 
dows the sickly dawn was stealing into the room. He 
stared out at it across the road to where the grey 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


249 


spire of the church stood out dark and distinct against 
the pale, cold sky; and through his mind, with a mis- 
erable sense of their appropriateness, flitted some 
words from the lesson he had read at the morning 
service only the Sunday before: “And when they 
came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of 
Marah, for they were bitter.” He had come to Marah ; 
he had drunk of the waters, and the taste thereof was 
like unto the bitterness of death. 


i 


XXVIII 


C HANGE — always change. It seemed to Beatrice, 
who had once looked upon life as a thing com- 
plete and perfectly organised, and settled in its num- 
berless channels, unalterable as the rivers straggling 
across a map, that, instead of a fixed and comfortably 
assured thing, life was very uncertain and purposeless. 
It was like a game of chance; one never knew what 
would result from the next revolution of the wheel. 
The turn of chance had ended her irresponsibly happy 
girlhood ; had uprooted her from her home and thrown 
her, reluctant yet incapable of resistance, among 
strangers. The wheel revolved once more, again drag- 
ging her with it; and now it thrust her forth from 
this new home, which James’ love, her inability to 
return it, had made impossible for her. There was no 
choice open to her ; she could not stay. 

James relieved the immediate embarrassment by 
going off hurriedly and without preparation to take 
duty^ for a sick friend somewhere in the north. His 
arrangements were so startlingly abrupt that his par- 
ents must have divined something of the nature of the 
trouble which prompted his unusual action; but they 
did not remark on it either to him or to each other: 
they were curiously reserved and loyal in their affec- 
tion for James. 

When he was gone, Beatrice completed her own 
250 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


251 


arrangements ; and a few days later she made the jour- 
ney to the station behind the fat pony, which Hurden 
drove; and with Mrs. Ashleigh, manifestly puzzled 
and faintly resentful at not being confided in more 
fully, to see her off, took her seat in the London train ; 
when, moved by a new and grateful affection for her 
aunt and feeling inexplicably distressed at parting, she 
leaned out of the window and drew her towards her 
and kissed her with a tenderness which Mrs. Ashleigh, 
being unprepared for, found secretly embarrassing. 

“You have been so kind to me,” she said. “I want 
to tell you — I want you to know that I am not un- 
grateful.” 

“My dear,” Mrs. Ashleigh answered, “there is noth- 
ing to be grateful for. We have liked having you. 
We shall be glad to see you back.” 

Beatrice made no response; observing which, ob- 
serving too the intense and saddened regret in her 
eyes, Mrs. Ashleigh looked up at her inquiringly. 

“You will be coming back?” she said. 

“I — don’t . . . one day, perhaps,” Beatrice an- 
swered, and fidgeted with the strap of the window and 
avoided those critical, inquiring eyes. 

“Well,” responded Mrs. Ashleigh comfortably, “I’ll 
get your room spring cleaned while you are away.” 

Then the train started ; and Beatrice, sitting idly in 
a corner of the carriage, looking out unseeingly upon 
the moving scene, pictured her aunt’s busy satisfac- 
tion superintending the spring cleaning of her unoccu- 
pied room. 

She did not think then that she would ever return ; 
but greater changes than Beatrice foresaw — than any- 


252 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


one in England foresaw at that time — were destined to 
alter further the course of her life — destined to dis- 
rupt and disorganise the lives not only of individuals 
but of nations. The greatest cataclysm which the 
world has ever known was looming very near. 

Beatrice arrived at Paddington in the early dusk of 
a cold January afternoon. She had been away a full 
year; and the bustle and stir of the crowded station, 
the murk and roar of the streets, sounded in her ears 
with the startling unexpectedness of once familiar and 
almost forgotten things. Bewildered, and unaccount- 
ably homesick, she felt a quick sense of relief on catch- 
ing sight of the somewhat vacuous face, the weedy, 
unsubstantial figure of her host. The Honourable 
Agustus Enfield waited on the platform, supported and 
encouraged by a discerning porter, and looked with an 
air of tired boredom along the platform in search of 
Beatrice. When he caught sight of her he appeared 
as relieved as she did. He amazed the porter by be- 
coming abruptly animated, even almost commanding. 

“So there you are!” he said, and shook hands. “I 
began to think you hadn’t turned up.” 

He inquired about her luggage, and left the porter 
to wrestle with that difficulty, and took her out to the 
waiting motor. 

“You’ve been in the country, haven’t you?” he asked 
conversationally. “Devonshire — yes. I’ve spent quite 
a lot of time there in the old days. Pretty — lots of 
hunting. Pretty girls too. Devon maids, and Devon 
cream — and cider. Jolly good stuff!” 

He told her that she was looking well, and added 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


253 


on a sudden inspiration in tones of unaffected 
surprise : 

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you since before Elbe’s 
wedding. You have been vegetating.” 

Beatrice laughed. 

“Confess, now,” she said, “you had forgotten my 
very existence.” 

“No, really,” he protested. “I’ve caught myself 
wondering several times what had become of you. 
But one forgets to ask these things.” 

It would have been needlessly tactless to admit that 
he forgot most people until, by happening across them, 
their existence was recalled. He seldom thought about 
people when they were out of sight. That had been 
one of the chief and most annoying characteristics of 
his courtship and early married life. It had proved in 
later years an accommodating virtue, and was perhaps 
the only quality which his wife thoroughly appreci- 
ated in him. Thus does nature provide compensation 
for most ills if one will but recognise it. 

Mrs. Enfield’s reception of Beatrice was warm and 
characteristic. She took charge of the girl promptly 
on her appearance; and seemed by her way of doing 
this to dismiss Agustus and all other extraneous mat- 
ters, and to become absorbed in the immediate and 
vital interest. 

“You ought to have come sooner,” she said. And 
then, regarding her critically, “You want new clothes.” 

“I was,” Beatrice returned, smiling, “considered 
very fashionable in Wedgemere.” 

“I suppose anything that wasn’t a crinoline would 
be considered fashionable there. How ever could you 


254 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


have lived in a vicarage all this while? Your letter 
didn’t surprise me in the least. I’ve been looking for it 
daily ever since you went. I knew it was bound to 
come. Now tell me — and then we’ll dismiss the sub- 
ject for good and all — what was the trouble? . . . 
the curate cousin, of course?” 

Flushed and distressed, Beatrice admitted that 
James was indirectly the cause of her flight. She said 
very little about that; but Mrs. Enfield filled in the 
gaps for herself. 

“Clergymen are so conceited,” she said; “they be- 
lieve every woman is ready to fall in love with them. 
There are usually a few cranks in most parishes who 
worship the curates. That sort of thing suggests 
boiled mutton to me — without capers.” Suddenly she 
smiled. “Occasionally there are capers,” she added; 
“and then the curate goes.” 

Beatrice rather astonished her by saying quickly and 
with a certain generous warmth of tone : 

“James is a splendid man. You would think so, if 
you knew him.” 

Mrs. Enfield, surveying the flushed, serious face, 
and recalling that Charlie also had spoken in appre- 
ciative defence of his cousin, became suddenly quite 
unnecessarily alarmed lest after all the curate menace 
was not finally disposed of. She decided as a prelim- 
inary measure of caution to take Beatrice abroad as 
soon as her own arrangements permitted her to leave 
England. Nothing equalled continental travelling, 
particularly when it was connected with the replenish- 
ing of a depleted wardrobe, as an antidote for erotom- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


255 


any. It was as efficacious as mothersyl in cases of 
seasickness. 

Thus it came about that Beatrice and Mrs. Enfield 
were in France when the greatest event in history be- 
fell — greatest in regard to its far-reaching and un- 
foreseen effects, its influence on the world, its deter- 
mined assault upon the anachronism of the monarchi- 
cal system, and other outgrown beliefs in influence and 
the divine right of kings and the glory of war. There 
is nothing ennobling in war, save only as it tends to 
throw into strong relief the courage and devotion of 
men, who in happier circumstances would inevitably, 
more usefully if less brilliantly, prove their worth. 
War stands for waste. It is brutal and brutalising — 
the heritage of a barbarism which, looking upon the 
horrors of this war of modem times, one is forced into 
recognising is not so far behind us as we had believed. 
Where is our civilisation? — that garment of gentle 
kindliness and decent restraints — that beauty of life 
towards which we have been striving through the cen- 
turies ? Where too is the toleration and sense of equity 
that were humanity’s increasing and finest qualities? 
. . . Not lost, but temporarily thrust aside and for- 
gotten. We shall drag these dear, forgotten things 
into the light again later, and look back with sorrow 
and shame to the period of their eclipse in the brighter 
days of a greater freedom and a more democratic 
world. 

Altruism is not dead, though it is crushed well-nigh 
to suffocation beneath the offal of cupidity, of un- 
worthy ambitions and unworthy hates. To clear away 
this refuse which stifles and get at the beauty it stulti- 


256 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


fies, one has to disinter and disintegrate the evils of our 
common nature — the meannesses of humanity — the lit- 
tleness, the greed, the self-love — the belief in and 
thought for self first and above every other considera- 
tion. It is just that, the meanness of humanity, that 
makes for wars, which are the outcome of mean am- 
bition; that makes for profiteering, which is the out- 
come of mean ambition; that makes for the desire of 
wealth and power and place — all mean ambitions, end- 
ing meanly. 

Has the war taught us anything? Can war teach 
anything? Even evil is not without some instructive 
quality. It has revealed, like a hidden sore clearly 
exposed by the relentless accuracy of the X-rays, the 
cruelty which still lurks in, and in many instances gov- 
erns the minds of men. 

To write of the war in detail, while the sorrow of 
was is fresh in so many hearts — its influence in every 
home — is impossible. It is too near. The story of the 
world war is for the chroniclers of the future. For 
this generation there are the realities, and the realities 
of war hurt. 


XXIX 


r | *HE outbreak of war brought the continental wan- 
dering to an abrupt finish. Mrs. Enfield, with 
Beatrice, and a bewildered maid in charge of much 
luggage, started in haste for England; and, in the 
confusion of the press of travellers, the bewildered 
maid allowed herself to be separated from the luggage, 
which was not only held up, but was for a time un- 
traceable. Mrs. Enfield resolutely broke her journey. 
Not all the Germans in the world should force her to 
sacrifice her baggage in a headlong flight for home. 
If her luggage were lost, war or no war, the railway 
authorities would have to make compensation; if it 
were recoverable through ordinary human means she 
intended to recover it. And she did. Her persistence 
galvanised the perplexed and worried officials into 
greater activity. There seemed only one way of get- 
ting rid of this tiresome Englishwoman; they took it; 
they set to work to discover the whereabouts of the 
lost luggage, and found it, minus the maid’s modest 
trunk. But, since it was the maid who had contrived 
to lose it in the first instance, the loss was clearly her 
own responsibility. The maid bore it philosophically. 
She knew how to compensate herself; and she was 
concerned only in placing the comforting width of the 
Channel between herself and threatening hostilities. 
257 


258 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


Like a great many people, she had a conscientious ob- 
jection to running risks. 

Mrs. Enfield went direct into Berkshire on her ar- 
rival in England, and was rather surprised to find her 
husband there. He looked surprised to see her, though 
she had telegraphed to announce her coming. He had 
seen the telegram, but had since forgotten it and her 
in the preoccupation of international affairs. He was 
unusually interested and absorbed in this stupendous 
disaster which had fallen at last after threatening the 
peace of Europe for over forty years — years which 
had lulled the world into a false sense of security that 
left it unprepared and open to attack. 

“So you managed the journey/’ he said, welcoming 
his wife with an assumption of agreeable expectancy. 
“Did you have any difficulty?” 

“Not difficulty, exactly,” she answered crossly, “but 
much discomfort. There was a regular exodus. Why 
couldn’t those horrid Germans leave things as they 
were? Everyone was quite happy and comfortable.” 

“We shall have to come in,” he said. 

“Eh ?” She faced him with a look of quick, amazed 
displeasure. 

“Don’t see how we are to keep out, unless we want 
our throats cut.” 

“I didn’t know,” she said. “I didn’t suppose it 
would touch us.” She turned away petulantly. “You 
are always saying uncomfortable things.” 

The uncomfortable thing became an actuality. It 
was possibly due to her recognition of the extreme 
likelihood of her husband’s prediction being realised 
that Mrs. Enfield had felt so extraordinarily annoyed 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGB 


259 


with him at the time of his gloomy prophecy. As she 
plaintively remarked : 

“Who wants war when everyone is quite comfort- 
able and happy ?” 

Undoubtedly Germany wanted war; and Germany 
had it — a surfeit of it. Inexplicably, too, Germany 
not only resented, but seemed surprised at, our entry 
into the war. The German mind is cunning, but it is 
also simple and strangely credulous — abnormal char- 
acteristics which inevitably reveal themselves in a dis- 
eased brain. And the ruling brain of Germany is dis- 
eased. It has inoculated the simple German mind with 
its insane, corrupt influence — with its insane hates, and 
its insaner ambitions. 

The Germans complain that the French, while they 
do not love them, understand them ; but that the Eng- 
lish only hate; they do not understand. If the soul of 
Germany is represented faithfully by her governing 
class — which is open to question — then we do not un- 
derstand Germany. We cannot understand this Ger- 
many. France may understand up to a certain point 
the psychology of a nation which sprawls across her 
threshold; but we in England have the clean, whole- 
some sweetness of the sea sweeping between us, sep- 
arating us from this canker at the heart of Western 
civilisation. We do not understand — we cannot un- 
derstand this bestial Prussian criminal which calls it- 
self Germany, and in Germany's name sets the laws 
of humanity at defiance, and drags the honour of its 
people in the mire. But neither do we hate. To hate 
is an un-British characteristic. The British respect 
or despise the enemy ; they do not hate. 


260 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


The declaration of war by Great Britain brought 
further changes into Beatrice’s life. Edward Ash- 
leigh, who had left the army, and early in the year 
had made his arrangements to emigrate, and subse- 
quently booked his passage to South Africa, cancelled 
his passage at the first hint of England’s participa- 
tion; and on the declaration of war he returned to his 
regiment. He sailed from England with the first di- 
vision of troops ; and Beatrice became one of the group 
of anxious, waiting women who remain behind in 
suspense, and search the papers daily for a name in 
the Roll of Honour. 

Shortly after Teddy sailed, she received a letter 
from Charlie — a letter which did not surprise her — 
which, indeed, caused her a thrill of satisfied though 
sorrowful pride. She had known from the first that 
the Empire would claim Charlie. He wrote in an un- 
usually serious vein. 

‘This is a terrible business,” he said. “Of course 
there is- a silver lining, and things are bound to come 
out right ; but it’s going to be a big thing — the biggest 
thing the world has known, and the ugliest. . . .” 
He had finished his letter with a characteristic touch. 
“What price my college career? I’ve joined up. What 
a lark !” 

But it wasn’t a lark either for him or for her. He 
joined because the life of the Empire was endangered, 
because she called upon her sons to defend her, not 
because he particularly wanted to kill Germans. Aus- 
trians he did not consider — they were in it, of course 
— a side issue ; no one credited them with responsibil- 
ity any more than the Turks. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


261 


Beatrice showed this letter to Mrs. Enfield. 

“They are both in it,” she said. “Eve never done 
anything. I can’t play about and do nothing all my 
life. I am going in for a course of training, so that 
when the boys come home I’ll be able to nurse them.” 

“Good gracious!” Mrs. Enfield exclaimed. “Why 
look ahead for trouble? They may not be wounded 
even.” 

“I don’t mean only my boys,” she answered. “I 
mean the nation’s boys. I want to help all I can.” 

Mrs. Enfield caught some of Beatrice’s enthusiasm. 

“I can’t let you boys and girls do everything,” she 
said. “I shall turn this house into a convalescent 
home; and when you are through with your training 
you can come here and nurse. I’ll get a matron and 
staff complete, and turn all the rooms into wards.” 

“For officers?” Beatrice asked, and fixed a doubtful 
eye on her friend. 

“No,” Mrs. Enfield answered, with a soft little laugh 
which ended in a sob. “The salt of the Empire is of 
Charlie’s type. He isn’t an officer. Some of the finest 
lads will go without waiting for a commission.” 

All these matters relating directly to the stresses of 
war interfered considerably with Mrs. Enfield’s matri- 
monial plans for Beatrice. The manhood of England 
was in arms, or engaged directly on responsible work 
for the Empire : the others didn’t count. 

“I would rather she married a man above military 
age than a man morally unfit. She is too good for 
any C.O.,” Mrs. Enfield opined. “The conscientious 
objector is a man with no sense of responsibility, other 
than a personal sense. That sort of man can’t up- 


262 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


hold the Empire — couldn’t defend his home. Clearly 
he shouldn’t be allowed the privilege of domestic re- 
sponsibility.” 

Her own son-in-law was above military age. He 
was, however, bent on doing something for his coun- 
try, and volunteered his services as a motor driver. 
Such strange occupations has the war thrust upon men 
and women alike. 

Ernest Wilson spent a Sunday in Berkshire. He 
came at Mrs. Enfield’s invitation; but in the midst of 
so much activity he was at a disadvantage, and he knew 
it. Before his coming, Mrs. Enfield extolled his use- 
fulness as a politician to Beatrice, and made sympa- 
thetic remarks upon the hardship of being forced by 
duty into an inglorious inactivity. All of which Be- 
atrice received in a dispassionate silence, which seemed 
to question without words the necessity for his en- 
forced passivity : so many civilians of thirty found the 
passive role impossible. He seemed a trifle ashamed 
of his unheroic position himself. 

“I suppose I ought to be shouldering a musket,” he 
said. “But the organisation of a great war like this 
can’t be left solely to old men. Someone’s got to stay 
at home and do the thinking.” 

“Yes,” she said. “I belong to that forlorn order.” 

He flushed quickly. 

“Women, of course,” he said, “can’t take an active 
part.” 

“No,” she answered. “We can only give our men, 
and nurse them back to health when they are returned 
to us broken. We can carry on too in other ways. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


263 


But we can’t fight — can’t defend the hearthstone. That 
is why we look to you to do it.” 

The flush on his face deepened. 

“You think I’m shirking?” he said. 

“Oh, no!” she answered. “I only think that you 
haven’t felt the call. You’ll feel it presently when the 
country is at death grips.” 

He did feel it — felt it so insistently that he was 
bound to respond. He gave his life for his country 
twelve months later, gave it ungrudgingly and without 
regret ; though six months before he had looked upon 
the war with the detached interest of a comparative 
outsider who feels that a thing which is not of his di- 
rect making is not his responsibility. 

“If I took to soldiering,” he asked her abruptly, 
“would it make any difference with you? . . . Would 
you marry me?” 

“Ah !” she said, and turned away from him quickly. 
“I couldn’t marry you in any circumstance. Marriage 
is a big question ; it isn’t simply a matter of liking and 
admiration. We aren’t the least suited to one an- 
other.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion,” he replied stiffly. 
“But if you feel like that, of course there is nothing 
more to be said.” 

Mrs. Enfield bore this disappointment better than 
the defeat she had suffered in the affair of the disrep- 
utable peer. The war was insensibly altering her 
focus. It no longer seemed to her to matter so much 
whether people got married or not — which, of course, 
was an altogether mistaken view, since when a big war 
rages marriage is more essential than at other times 


264 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


to replace the depleted stock reduced by this brutal 
carnage. But in the first shock and horror of the war 
it appeared to Mrs. Enfield immaterial if the stock 
failed all round. Where was the use of bringing chil- 
dren into the world for this? It was all a waste — 
waste of passion, waste of anguish, w T aste of youth and 
strength and brain — waste of love and waste of hate — 
hideous and inhuman waste. 

“If the world were republicanised there would be an 
end of wars,” Mr. Enfield said. 

His wife stared at him. 

“I thought you were an Imperialist,” she said. 

“I am, when things work smoothly,” he answered. 
“There’s a sort of dignity about these obsolete cus- 
toms; modern reform lacks it; it’s a lack which consti- 
tutes the biggest stumbling-block to reform. It’s like 
the value of old buildings : they have every advantage 
that age and art can lend, but they aren’t hygienic. 
We like the comfortable vaguenesses, the mellow dig- 
nity of ancient things; we dislike innovations. But 
modern principles, like modern buildings, are the 
sanest. When anything big and ugly crops up it can 
generally be traced to undemocratic influence. There 
is corruption in high places — undue influence, self-in- 
terest. Socialism, and all that — that’s the other ex- 
treme. Extremes are injurious; they are usually one- 
sided. One wants a national government, purged of 
party intrigues; one wants a democracy — universal 
democracy. The world is ready for it.” 

“And what about your family?” she asked. 

He lifted indifferent brows. The war was altering 
his focus also. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


265 


“The individual has no right to honours other than 
those he wins for himself. This family inheritance 
system is rather like the portion left to unmarried 
women; it secures their independence at the sacrifice 
of independence. Let each person take his place ; then 
he will fill it ably, and no one will seek to eject him.” 

“If that isn’t socialism,” she returned, “I don’t un- 
derstand the term.” 


XXX 


T?URTHER changes came about. In a letter from 
Mrs. Ashleigh Beatrice learned that James had 
volunteered his services as chaplain during the period 
of the war, and that he was under orders to leave im- 
mediately for France. This did not surprise her. It 
was the kind of thing one would expect of James. 
And he would be of such immense use — a help and 
comfort to the wounded, a wise and cheery comrade 
for the lads who, for all their fine courage and en- 
thusiasm, needed, often without knowing it, the re- 
straining and elevating friendship of such men as 
James Ashleigh. The war has not so much produced 
as revealed scores of these courageous, devoted, self- 
sacrificing men. Some of them have given their lives 
for their fellow-men; some of them have won the 
highest award for valour. James was not of these. 
The courage for supreme self-sacrifice was not lack- 
ing, but the opportunity did not offer. The only re- 
ward he won — and it is greater than any other — was 
the grateful love and respect of the men among whom 
he worked. 

“That disposes of the curate cousin anyway/’ was 
Mrs. Enfield’s comment. “He’s out of mischief until 
the finish of the war.” 

But marriage with a curate was no longer the dis- 
aster it once had seemed; a revolution was occurring 
266 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


267 


in all Mrs. Enfield’s ideas, even in relation to social 
values. 

This revolution of ideas was not confined to Mrs. 
Enfield : a revulsive wave swept over many minds, car- 
rying away in its progress many preconceived opin- 
ions, removing all manner of inconsistencies and preju- 
dices; generally simplifying in its drastic enlargement 
the mental outlook. It was rather like removing the 
purely ornamental part of a structure for the sake of 
light and space. The same clearing process was taking 
place in Beatrice’s brain, taking place unconsciously. 
She had no knowledge of any change working in her- 
self. It did not occur to her that her outlook on life 
was any different now from what it had been in the 
peaceful days which seemed to lie so far back in the 
past. With the difficult unsheathing of the sword, 
rusted in its scabbard, a new era had dawned ; and all 
the pleasant trivial things which had satisfied in the 
years that were dead were dead too with the years; 
the new era was an era of greater sincerity, of more 
serious thought. 

That spirit of restless energy, of a desire to do 
something, which animated women at the beginning of 
the war, and found an outlet in nursing and knitting, 
and later flowed into so many channels, opening unex- 
pectedly under the new conditions, which it filled and 
fitted with surprising adaptability, gripped Beatrice. 
War taught the women of Great Britain many things, 
as it bore down before it with the resistless, inexorable, 
juggernaut might of the modern tank the prejudices, 
the repugnances, the obsolete traditions of the old se- 
curity, and swept away the sex barriers with the ac- 


268 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


cepted belief in feminine incompetence, and woman’s 
want of faith in and understanding of herself. The 
lessons which the war has taught will not be lost. 

Beatrice went up to London for the purpose of at- 
tending ambulance lectures; and Mrs. Enfield accom- 
panied her, leaving the transformation of the Berk- 
shire house into a hospital to more experienced hands. 

“I am just as well out of it,” she said. “I always 
want to interfere; and, after all, what do I know about 
hospitals ?” 

On the second day of her arrival in town, Beatrice 
encountered in Regent Street, without any preparation 
whatever, with indeed no expectation of seeing him, 
believing that he was in France, Frederick Hurst. 
They came face to face at the Heddon Street corner, 
and stopped simultaneously and stared at one another. 
Hurst looked pleased. There was not a trace of em- 
barrassment in his manner as he took and gripped her 
hand, smiling into her eyes. 

“This is good to see you,” he cried. “I didn’t know 
you were in town.” 

“I came up yesterday from Berkshire,” she said. 

“It has been a close thing then,” he returned. “I 
sail to-morrow.” 

He seemed extraordinarily elated : his bearing was 
altogether different; he looked alert, keen, pleasantly 
expectant; the old purposeless, discontented air was 
gone. And he appeared handsomer than ever in 
khaki. 

“To-morrow!” she repeated, and scrutinised him 
curiously. “I believe you are — enjoying this.” 

His face took on a graver look. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


269 


“Don’t you get thinking that I am rejoicing at the 
war,” he said ; “I’m not. But I’m glad, since war was 
inevitable sooner or later, it has come in my time. 
I’m glad now I am a soldier. Don’t you see, I’ve got 
an object in life at last? — something to do. I was 
just fretting about, muddling along, before. This 
offers a solution. I’m like that. I want something to 
catch on to. . . . Look here,” he added hastily, “I 
haven’t much time — just about an hour to spare. Come 
and have lunch with me somewhere — will you? Good- 
ness knows when we shall meet again.” 

Beatrice considered this for a moment. Mrs. En- 
field was expecting her back; but on reflection that 
seemed unimportant compared with his eager request, 
and her own wish to comply. They debated upon 
where they should lunch, and finally decided for the 
nearest place, which enjoyed a certain reputation for 
its cuisine, and where the band did not play during 
meals. 

“I want to talk,” he said. 

They sat at a little table together downstairs. It 
was early, and the room was not very full. He talked 
of impersonal matters for a time; but it was impos- 
sible to keep altogether off the topic of the war. 

“It’s a bad business, this,” Hurst said. “It’s going 
to be a bloody business. Germany has made of war 
a fine art — if one can lift to the level of art anything 
so devilishly destructive. We are coming out on top, 
mind you — and we are coming out a bigger nation 
than before. But we shall suffer humiliation and sor- 
row and hardship before we crush this despot of mil- 
itarism. We’ve all got to put our shoulder to it; 


270 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


there’s no doubt about that — men and women alike. 
What are you going to do ?” 

The question was so abrupt that, being unprepared, 
she hesitated for a moment, and was conscious while 
she hesitated that his eyes never left her face. What 
could she do ? Munitions at that time had not come to 
be accepted as part of woman’s work. 

“Nurse,” she answered at last. “It doesn’t seem 
to me that there is anything else I can do.” 

He nodded confidently. 

“That’s good,” he said. “I knew that with two sol- 
dier brothers you would be doing something. You’ll 
set some of the boys on their legs again and send them 
back to the front. But” — he paused for a space and 
eyed her steadily — “I wonder if you are strong 
enough? It’s not physical strength I am meaning. 
You’ll see some awful sights. I’d hate to think that 
you suffered — vicariously.” 

“Oh, I’ll suffer,” she said. “There is no doubt I’ll 
suffer. But I should suffer in any case. It will help 
me a lot if I feel I am alleviating suffering. I can’t 
stand outside this. I shall feel it either way.” 

“Ah!” he said, and played absently with the bread 
beside his plate, the bread which was to become so 
scarce and valuable, not only to those nations at war 
but to neutral countries whose supplies were affected 
by war. “It’s almost a curse to be possessed of an 
imagination nowadays.” 

“If the nation possessed no imagination,” she an- 
swered, “there would be no gallant response of her 
sons. Only this morning while I walked down Oxford 
Street a body of men passed me — new recruits in 


BEATRICE , ASHLEIGH 


271 


civilian dress, marching along so proud and glad. 
Some of them were singing as they marched. It 
brought the tears into my eyes. Six months hence, 
perhaps, most of those men will be dead.” 

He nodded briefly, without answering her. 

“Do you wonder that we women hate war?” she 
asked. “Each man who dies belongs to some woman 
— his death stabs some woman to the heart. It isn’t 
surprising when women try to hold their men back.” 

“No,” he agreed. “That’s where the injustice of 
the voluntary system comes in. Men ought not to be 
burdened with the responsibility of choice ; it adds two- 
fold to the anguish. A man when he has to go takes 
his chance cheerfully ; when the choice of going is his, 
the responsibility of his death, and the pain it brings 
upon others, rests with him. It isn’t right. I’ve 
thanked God since this war that my mother died five 
years ago, and that there is no other woman to whom 
my welfare matters. I can go into this without any 
misgivings. My life is my own; and that means that 
it’s my country’s. It isn’t of any value to anyone but 
myself.” 

There was no doubt about it that he was glad as he 
said. She wondered whether he had forgotten entirely 
that eight months ago he had wished to make his life 
her responsibility, and that she had refused the re- 
sponsibility because she did not love enough to over- 
look certain things? 

“You don’t mean that you will take reckless risks ?” 
she asked. 

He looked surprised. 

“That wouldn’t be of much benefit to the country,” 


272 


BEATKICE ASHLEIGH 


he answered. “I’m not out for suicide, if that’s what 
you mean.” 

She flushed painfully. 

“I did not mean anything so foolish,” she replied, 
with dignity. “But when a man is brave, and has no 
one to consider, he is apt to be reckless of life.” 

“No,” he said. “Not if he has the welfare of the 
Empire at heart.” 

Suddenly he leaned towards her, and laid his hand 
over hers where it rested beside her plate. 

“Little woman,” he said earnestly, “you stand to 
me for the Empire. It is man’s love of home — of 
woman, as typified in that word — that causes him to 
give his life if necessary in the protection of home. 
I am going to defend you — and the Empire. The men 
you saw marching along Oxford Street to-day are out 
for the same thing. We aren’t going to allow any 
Prussian beast to cross our threshold. The nation 
that gives way without adequate resistance has lost its 
right to exist. We’ll resist to the last breath; and 
we’ll win — don’t you have any doubt about that. They 
cant win. They have no self-control; and without 
self-control it is impossible to control others. A 
greater Britain will arise out of this war — a greater 
Germany also from the ashes of her baser self. But 
we have got to plumb the depths first. We’ve got to 
suffer. ... It is the rebirth of the nations. ... I 
wish you would write to me occasionally. I shall have 
no other correspondent. I shall write to you — often.” 

She looked at him with pleased, shy eyes. 

“I’ll be glad to hear from you,” she said. “Of 
course I’ll write — regularly. And I’ll send you any- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 273 


thing you want, as I shall send to the boys. You 
mustn’t think that — that no one is interested in you 
because you have no near ties. That isn’t so.” 

They had finished their lunch; and now she got up 
and busied herself with collecting her gloves and purse, 
trying to hide from him the tears that were in her 
eyes. He saw them, though he pretended not to see; 
only when they were leaving the place, as they mounted 
the low stairs side by side, he took hold of her arm 
and kept his hold until they reached the street. 

“You are strung up, little girl,” he said kindly. 
“The war is on your nerves.” 

“What will become of my nerves before it ends?” 
she asked, laughing nervously. 

“Oh, you’ll have yourself in hand before then,” he 
replied comfortingly. 

He held up a hand to a passing taxi. 

“I wish I could come with you,” he said regretfully, 
as he shut the door upon her; “but my time is short 
now. You’ve had the last of my leisure. It has been 
such a pleasure seeing you. Whatever happens, I have 
this last brief time with you to remember. Good-bye, 
and the best of luck.” 

He gripped her hand hard. She leaned quickly 
towards him. 

“Good-bye, Fred,” she said softly. 

And whether she lifted her face, or whether the 
initiative were his, he never rightly knew ; but abruptly 
his lips found hers, and for the first time he kissed 
the woman he loved upon the mouth. 


XXXI 


nPHAT unexpected meeting with Hurst ; the unusual 
flavour of earnestness in his talk; the entirely 
unforeseen development of its termination, which had 
altered their relationship altogether — shifted the 
ground of their mutual acceptance as an explosion, 
or some other cataclysm, will transform the natural 
face of things, affected Beatrice powerfully. Her 
whole view of the man was altered. The man himself 
was altered. Some psychological change was work- 
ing in him, raising him. This catastrophe had lifted 
him out of the slough of purely personal things; his 
own concerns had ceased to engage all his thought, 
had indeed come to assume wholly unimportant di- 
mensions. It is doubtful even whether at that time 
he gave more than a passing thought to the one-time 
absorbing distresses of his love affairs. If, when he 
met Beatrice again, some of the old longing revived, 
it was merely transitory. He had no thought then of 
wooing, far less of marriage. His attitude towards 
these things was detached — rather the attitude of a 
man who has married and become a widower under 
peculiarly painful circumstances, and feels now only 
the urgency to defend what is left to him — the home 
of his buried hopes. He was relieved, as he had ad- 
mitted to Beatrice, that no tie held him other than 
patriotism. It left him curiously free and independ- 
274 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


275 


ent. The complaint of loneliness was something he 
could not understand. 

With Beatrice also these things had ceased to sig- 
nify. Nothing of what had once passed between them 
seemed to her to matter any more. They had ceased 
to be lovers. They were comrades, faced by a com- 
mon danger, moved to unusual enterprise, to a swift, 
responsive attention that only needed a signal to be- 
come active and energetic; and conscious only of an 
intense kindliness, a warmth of mutual affection which 
neither had experienced before, and which brought a 
new agreeable quality of intimacy into their relation- 
ship. 

She appreciated Hurst’s attitude in regard to the 
war ; she liked too his expectation, almost his demand, 
that she should do her bit; liked it because it proved 
that it mattered to him. She counted somehow in his 
life, as he counted in hers. They could not separate 
their interests entirely. 

She felt solicitous for his safety, and very tender 
after they parted towards him in her thoughts. She 
was glad to remember that he had kissed her. 
Strangely, she could think of him now altogether kind- 
ly and without resentment; could think too of the 
woman who for a short while had been in his life 
without aversion. All that mattered so little. It was 
but a phase of life — one of life’s ugly phases. She 
realised that she had exaggerated the importance of 
this thing, as women incline to exaggerate what they 
do not understand. The war had given her a better 
understanding of him and of life. Her former out- 
look had lacked breadth, and a narrow view is not 


276 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


merely defective; it is frequently unjust. That thought 
came to her with something like a shock of surprise. 
She had been unjust. She had not tried, had not 
wished to view the matter from any point but the 
one. The thing had repelled her; that repulsion had 
corroded all her thoughts of him, until she had come 
to consider him entirely lacking in the moral sense. 
Now that she saw things more clearly, with a saner, 
an unbiassed judgment, she knew that she stood con- 
victed of injustice. She had held such conventional 
ideas of life. All that was upset with the general up- 
heaval. He had at lunch expressed something of what 
she felt when he said : “Nothing can be the same, none 
of us will ever be quite the same again. . . .” None 
of us — not even those whom the war has left un- 
scathed. 

Some months later Charlie went to the front. There 
was not in the early days of the war the dispatch, or 
any promise of that dispatch, which characterised the 
latter part. It took a long time to transform conserva- 
tive England from a complacent, ease-loving nation 
into the energetic nation under arms which later arose, 
and amazed the world by throttling deliberately its old 
voluntary system, with other obsolete ideals. Many 
cherished beliefs were abandoned during those years 
of struggle, abandoned painfully. Men part with their 
beliefs as grudgingly — more grudgingly than some men 
part with their lives. 

Charlie had chafed at the delay; now that the wait- 
ing was finished the old cheery satisfaction with life 
returned. The last night in England he spent with his 
sister at Mrs. Enfield’s. They sat through the night, 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 277 


and talked away the hours until five o’clock, when he 
had to go. Ellie was there, a worried, perplexed Ellie; 
resentful at this upsetting of her careless, pleasant life; 
puzzled to understand why England should interfere 
in other people’s quarrels. 

Charlie sat on the sofa between her and Beatrice, 
with an arm round each of them; while Mrs. Enfield 
sat opposite, observing him with wistful, affectionate 
eyes, hating the Kaiser and all things Teutonic for 
this savage demand for blood sacrifice that was going 
to rob, not only England, but the best part of the world, 
of the flower and youth of its manhood. War was a 
stupid, brutal affair. Why could not men recognise 
how futile it was, and resort to more dignified methods 
of settling international jealousies? Involuntarily she 
glanced at her daughter, shortly to become a mother. 

“If men had the bearing of children,” was her re- 
flection, “they would have a greater respect for life.” 

“I wish you hadn’t joined,” Ellie complained. “All 
the nicest men are going. Everything will be so dull.” 

Charlie smiled into the protesting eyes. It had 
never been for any mental quality that he had been 
fond of Ellie. 

“You wouldn’t think much of me if I didn’t go,” he 
said. “After the doings in Belgium every decent man 
feels he has to go. They’d come over here and do the 
same, if we let them. Everyone turns out, you know, 
to stop a mad dog.” 

“Well, there’s one thing certain,” Ellie said com- 
fortably, “a gigantic war like this can’t last long. It 
disorganises the whole world.” 

“The world will have to adapt itself,” he replied. 


278 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“Light me a cigarette, Ellie, and don’t make bets on 
the finish before a thing is well begun. ,, 

“Oh, you !” she cried, making play with her pretty 
ringed hands in complying with his request. “You 
won’t let me be cheerful. But I’m not going to worry. 
I’m going to look on the bright side. I feel quite 
comfortable about you. I am sure everything will be 
all right.” 

“If it comes to that,” he retorted, “I don’t see that 
you have any right to worry about me.” 

She laughed and patted his cheek affectionately. 

“The soldier man is every woman’s love, and every 
woman’s responsibility,” she answered. 

Mrs. Enfield concerned herself about his kit. Had 
he got plenty of socks? Socks, she understood, were 
most important ; it was so essential to keep the feet dry. 

“You are coming out in a new light,” he said, and 
grinned broadly. “I believe you will be knitting me 
socks before long.” 

“War makes one think of things one hasn’t been 
accustomed to think of,” she admitted. 

“Well, it won’t be your fault if I haven’t plenty of 
everything,” he said. “You’ve just showered gifts 
upon me. As for cigarettes, I’ve never smoked so 
many in all my life as during the past month or two.” 

He wanted to thank her, but found no words in 
which to do it. His affection for Mrs. Enfield had 
leapt forward with great strides, not on account of the 
gifts — she was always generous — but because of the 
almost maternal solicitude she betrayed for him at 
that time. 

“We’ll see, the girls and I,” she said, smiling, “that 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


279 


you don’t lack smokes. Men have such an extraor- 
dinary number of these indispensable wants.” 

“That’s a tactful way of describing bad habits,” he 
returned. “It’s awfully jolly of you to look to my 
material needs. Those parcels of yours remind me 
of conjuring tricks — they are packed on the intensive 
principle; one keeps on dipping in, and the supply 
seems inexhaustible. I believe we borrowed that con- 
juring idea from the spiders — that trick of theirs of 
fetching up cobweb from their insides, for instance. 
It always baffled me to understand how they managed 
that. One wonders where it all comes from. It’s the 
same with your parcels. When I’ve tumbled the things 
out I can never get them back again. And you do 
know how to choose a cigarette.” 

“For you — yes,” she returned. “I go to the Stores, 
and ask the intelligent person there to recommend the 
most likely brand to suit the fastidious palate of a 
private who was once a nut. I am glad you approve 
his selection. I don’t know what the brand is. They 
go down to Agustus’ account. But I do pack the 
parcels myself.” 

“You are a brick,” he said. “It’s the thought that 
matters, not the bill.” 

Mrs. Enfield, at the risk of losing her cook, had ar- 
ranged for a late supper, which they took at half-past 
three — a merry meal, despite the fact that two of the 
women felt anxious, and one was sick at heart. The 
least concerned of the quartette was Charlie. He ral- 
lied Beatrice on her silence, and teased Elbe, and 
toasted the three of them in some of Agustus’ very 
excellent champagne. 


280 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“All this is such a waste,” he said, and laughed, 
when Mrs. Enfield pressed sweets on him. “You are 
overlooking the cross-Channel trip.” 

Ellie shivered. 

“I hate the Channel,” she said. 

Abruptly his eyes traveled to her face and fastened 
upon hers. He had asked her once to cross the Chan- 
nel with him, and she had refused. He wondered if 
she remembered. 

“You were always a little coward,” he said, and his 
eyes smiled into hers. 

For a moment she continued to look at him intently; 
then she flushed and looked away. 

“Yes, I suppose so. Sometimes I wish I had been 
braver,” she returned. 

At five o’clock he left them in the cold, raw dark- 
ness of a December morning. They followed him out 
to the hall ; and Ellie helped him on with the becoming 
Service coat which was almost too heavy for her to 
hold. 

“You look lovely,” she said, surveying him admir- 
ingly, whereat everybody laughed. 

They laughed at so little that morning, standing to- 
gether in the warm, brightly lit hall — laughed with a 
readiness that suggested nerves strung to high tension, 
and the consciousness that if they did not laugh they 
might break down. Each in her different way loved 
the gay, jolly lad who was going out to face death with 
so gallant and cheerful a spirit. He swung round 
and lifted Ellie off her feet and kissed her. 

“You’re a dear,” he said. “It’s just as well Ark- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


281 


wright isn’t here — though he couldn’t prevent me, if he 
were. You’ve always been my little pal.” 

And Beatrice, watching him, hearing him murmur 
against Elbe’s smiling lips, felt a quick stab of pain 
at the knowledge which came to her with a desolating 
sense of conviction that this thing had mattered to 
Charlie : it had not been a boyish affection ; he loved as 
a man loves ; he was hungry for Elbe. 

He set her on her feet again with an awkward laugh, 
and somewhat abruptly took his leave of the others 
and went away in the dawn. 

“Come back,” Elbe called after him, standing in the 
doorway, the light behind her throwing her small fig- 
ure into sharp relief. “Come back soon — dear.” 

His voice came to her strongly through the fog- 
laden atmosphere. 

“Go in, Elbe. You’ll catch your death of cold. Of 
course I’ll come back to the sweetest girl I know.” 

Then the mist swallowed him; and it was Beatrice 
who drew Elbe inside and closed the door quietly. 
When she turned, it was to find Elbe sobbing, with 
her face puckered miserably like a distressed child’s. 

“I hate those ridiculous goose-stepping, beer-swilling 
Germans,” she cried pettishly. “They are a nation of 
tin soldiers — tumbled out of their box.” 

“We’ve got to put them back,” Beatrice said, “and 
tidy up the mess.” 

“I wonder if our boys will succeed in doing it,” 
Mrs. Enfield speculated, with a touch of that rare 
pessimism which at certain periods of the war affected 
a few — a very few — people in these Isles. “They are 


282 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


packed on the intensive principle too, and our army 
isn’t.” 

Our army was not at that time; but before the finish 
it had swelled from a brave handful to the glorious 
army of millions that won for the Empire on land a 
prestige which the navy has long held, and still holds, 
at sea. 


XXXII 


/"^HARLIE did not come back. Before December 
was out the news arrived that he was killed. In 
the first shock of grief, Beatrice thought only, cared 
only, that he was dead ; later she felt resentful that he 
should have died so soon. He would have wished to 
have gone through more, seen more. To use a phrase 
of his own, he had had no run for his money. And 
he had enjoyed life so — had been at life’s beginning. 
That is the tragedy of war — the toll which it takes of 
youth. It is hard to die ; it is hardest when the world 
unfolds before one in all its hopeful promise, when the 
blood of youth flows vigorously, and life is a great and 
wonderful and untested adventure. It matters noth- 
ing that when life is sampled the glory of its promise 
fades in the sadness of reality; the morning of life 
still shows fair, enriched with the immortal gift of 
youth. 

And now Charlie was gone; and to Beatrice life 
seemed suddenly to have become terribly uncertain 
and unsubstantial. At any moment the blow might 
fall again : it fell more than once in so many homes. 

Hurst, who wrote to her regularly, sent a brief letter 
of sympathy. 

“What can I say?” he wrote. “There is nothing to 
say. I am feeling horribly sorry for you. You are 
more badly hurt than he was, poor old fellow! I 
283 


284 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


know so well how deep this wound goes. Keep a good 
heart, little woman, and carry on. . . 

Carry on, of course. One had to do that. 

Hurst’s letters were a great interest to Beatrice, 
and at that time an immense comfort. They were 
sketchy and bright, and contained very little that was 
descriptive of the horrors of war; but a sentence now 
and again told her what he thought of it, and explained 
his general avoidance of the subject. 

“It is hell — just hell,” he wrote once. “The memory 
of it, if I come through, will never leave me.” 

The spring found Beatrice back in Wedgemere. 
She went down for a few days’ rest and change. She 
had been overdoing the training, Mrs. Enfield consid- 
ered; and Charlie’s death had left her depressed and 
worried. She was not ill, only generally out of health, 
and the doctor advised rest. 

Her aunt, meeting her at the station, and observing 
her critically, decided that there was a big difference 
between this girl and the girl she had seen off a little 
over a year before. She looked older and altogether 
more responsible. The alteration was, in Mrs. Ash- 
leigh’s opinion, an improvement. 

“I am glad you have come back to us,” she said. 
“Everyone has missed you. Of course we know you 
can’t stay, that you have more important work now to 
do ; but we are pleased to see you, if only for a short 
time.” 

Beatrice appreciated the sincere, kindly welcome. 
They all made her feel that they were pleased to see 
her. Even Miss Gervais had forgotten in sympathy 
with her the one-time jealousy that had rankled so 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


285 


bitterly when James was at home, and the curate’s 
sister had feared a rival in the younger girl. James 
had disappeared off the stage for a time; and Miss 
Gervais read the letters which he wrote to his mother 
with a pleasure and satisfaction that was pathetic in 
view of the fact that he neither wrote to her nor sent 
her any message. Her participation was wholly 
vicarious. 

James did not mention Beatrice either; but, in a 
letter which arrived while she was at the vicarage, he 
referred to Edward Ashleigh, whom he had recently 
seen. 

Mrs. Ashleigh had purposely kept James’ letters 
from Beatrice, because they were on the whole painful 
— particularly painful for anyone who had suffered 
loss in the war. They arrived regularly. The terrible 
spring campaign of 1915 was in progress; and James 
wrote from a clearing hospital near the firing line. 
They were the saddest letters which she had received 
from him. 

Wedgemere held a good record for the number of 
men it had contributed to the army. These had, in 
many instances, followed James Ashleigh’s lead. A 
large percentage of them had fallen. The Ridleys’ 
eldest lad was killed, and Jenny Rossiter’s sweetheart. 

The day after her arrival, Beatrice encountered 
Jenny in the fields, walking towards the railway. She 
was on her way to call upon old Rogers, but at the 
sight of Jenny, walking in a dragging, aimless fash- 
ion, with her eyes on the ground, the gipsy face hard 
and sullen, she turned out of her course to speak to 
the girl. 


286 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“Jenny, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Mrs. Ashleigh 
told me about Joe. I’m so sorry for you.” 

Jenny was not responsive. 

“Oh, ay!” she muttered, and looked steadily away 
towards the line. 

“Are you going anywhere?” Beatrice asked, wishful 
that Jenny should accompany her across the fields, de- 
sirous of saying something which might convey a 
sense of sympathy. 

She was thinking of that windy Sunday morning 
when, with Charlie, she had watched Jenny and Joe 
meet and disappear among the barley. It was not so 
long ago, and now both of those lads were gone.” 

“I was just goin’ to the crossin’,” Jenny answered, 
without looking at her. “I feel some day I’ll wander 
there, same’s Mr. Toller’s son done. Ba’nt nothing 
else for it that I can see.” 

Beatrice shook her head, her sorrowful eyes on 
the tanned, hopeless face. 

“That wouldn’t be any sort of help,” she said. She 
went nearer to the girl. “Do you remember one Sun- 
day morning passing me at the stile when my brother 
was with me? — my dear brother, who now lies over 
there in France beside Joe.” 

“Back along in the summer. . . . Ay, I mind.” 

“I was very fond of my brother, Jenny; and the 
war took him. But we’ve got to carry on, you and I. 
There is work for us to do. We don’t give in.” 

Jenny flushed swiftly. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, in her blunt way. “I mind 
’im, yes. I’m sorry for ’im — and for you. I’m real 
sorry, Miss Ashleigh.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


287 


She turned away abruptly, and walked down the 
lane, keeping her eyes on the ground. But she had 
her back now towards the line. She was going home. 

As Beatrice pursued her solitary way along the 
once familiar path between the rich red furrows of 
newly ploughed land, her thoughts turned persist- 
ently upon Jenny. Something in Jenny's look, in the 
sullen hopelessness of her manner, troubled her. Jen- 
ny’s eyes, so persistent in their avoidance of her own, 
had worn the look of a trapped animal. Why, be- 
cause her lover was dead, need she have worn a hunted, 
helpless look ? The girl’s eyes haunted Beatrice. The 
pain and the horror in them chilled her. Here was 
something which she did not understand, but which 
she instinctively sympathised with — one of the essen- 
tial problems of life which our social laws have made 
shameful. 

Near old Rogers’ cottage she encountered Mrs. 
Morey — so unfamiliar a Mrs. Morey that, but for the 
connecting link of environment, and the fact that Mrs. 
Morey beamed upon her in welcoming geniality, she 
would have failed to recognise this old friend whose 
face had undergone such alterations that, like some 
female Faust, her youth appeared miraculously re- 
stored. After a moment of swift surprise, Beatrice 
discovered the reason of this change. The relict Mrs. 
Morey had displayed so long was gone; she wore in 
its stead a complete set of teeth. 

“You are looking well,” she said, and stopped and 
shook hands. 

“Ay; that’s the teeth. A wonnerful diff’ence they 


288 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


make, so I’m told. Alf, ’e gave me they afore ’e went 
to the front.” 

Alf was Mrs. Morey’s son. He was one of the lads 
who had joined up when James Ashleigh left Wedge- 
mere as chaplain to the forces. Alf had not, accord- 
ing to his mother, any stomach for fighting; but the 
young woman he walked out with had threatened to 
give him up if he did not volunteer. 

“I don’t think,” Mrs. Morey explained, “that ’e’d 
’ave done it, only ’e believed that ’e wouldn’t pass the 
doctor. An’ ’e did.” Mrs. Morey looked triumphant. 
“I knowed my own cheeld wasn’t sickly, though ’e 
always ’lowed ’e was. ’E passed all right. An’ wasn’t 
’e down’earted, that’s all, the night afore ’e left. His 
young lady was in yere; an’ nothin’ she could say 
could ’earten ’im. ‘You better go an’ ’ave yer teeth 
seen to, mother,’ ’e says to me. ‘I’ll pay for they out 
o’ what I got in the savings bank. I don’t suppose 
I’ll ever ’ave no use for that now.’ Alf was always 
rather close with ’is money; but ’e made so sure that 
’e was goin’ to be killed that ’e felt a bit generous like. 
That’s ’ow I come to get they teeth in. Tiresome old 
nuisance, I found ’em first along; but I’m kind o’ 
gettin’ used to ’em.” 

“You have good news of Alf, I hope?” Beatrice 
asked. 

“Aw, ees; Alf’s all right so far. But ’tisn’t war, 
this yere — ’tis driving beasts to the slaughter. Most 
of the chaps that’s gone from here are killed. ’Tisn’t 
war. What I’d do with that old Kaiser if I got holt 
to en!” She looked vindictive, and ruminated darkly 
for a while. “Tear ’is eyes out for en, I would. . . . 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


289 


An’ yer own brother killed too ! Aw, us was all sorry 
to hear ’bout that. Well, ’tis the same all round, and 
maybe Alf next. Mr. Tozer’s son’s gone, and daft 
Will, as us used to call the boss-eyed chap what killed 
for butcher Hallett. And Jenny’s Joe. ... A reg’lar 
weedin’ out, seems so.” 

“I’ve just seen Jenny,” Beatrice said. 

“Aw!” And Mrs. Morey folded her hands com- 
placently upon her apron strings. “A bad business, 
that is — ees, sure.” 

“There is some trouble besides Joe’s death?” Be- 
atrice suggested. 

Mrs. Morey contemplated the earnest, youthful face 
before her, and hesitated; a natural love for gossip 
fighting with a matronly prudence which prompted 
reticence. 

“Maybe there is,” she allowed. 

Beatrice laid an impulsive hand on the older 
woman’s bare arm. 

“We ought to help, you and I,” she said. “Tell me 
what the trouble is.” 

Mrs. Morey hesitated. 

“ ’Tis like this,” she said at last furtively, in am- 
biguous reference to the girl’s condition : “ ’tisn’t milk 
nor cream, for it won’t run ; ’tisn’t butter nor cheese, 
for it won’t melt; ’tis like an apple on a tree — when 
it’s ripe it’ll fall.” 

“Ah!” Beatrice said, and was silent a moment. 
“What are you going to do about it, Mrs. Morey?” 
she asked abruptly. 

Mrs. Morey stared at her. 


290 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


“Don’t see ’tis any business o’ mine, Miss Ashleigh,” 
she replied. 

“Well, it is,” Beatrice insisted — “your business, and 
mine — every woman’s business. You’ve got to stand 
by her and help her through. I would, only I shan’t 
be here. I shall be busy, nursing the wounded — your 
Alf, perhaps — some woman’s Alf, anyhow. You’ve 
got to look after Jenny. It’s up to you, mind, while 
I’m looking after Alf.” 

Mrs. Morey smiled dubiously. 

“You always was a queer one, Miss Ashleigh,” she 
said. “But I’d do more’n that for you — seein’ you 
with such a good heart too, an’ your own brother 
killed! Aw, I’ll look after Jenny. I’ll fight ’er battles 
for ’er. ’Er’ll get another lad some time; ’er’s good 
lookin’ enough. Plenty o’ chaps round yere is mazed 
after ’er. Don’t seem to matter if a girl’s good so 
long’s ’er’s got a pretty face. Goodness may get you 
into the Kingdom of Heaven, but it never got a girl 
a lover. Given my choice, I’d bid for looks every 
time. So I would, ees.” 

Beatrice fought Jenny’s battle further for her with 
Mrs. Ashleigh, who, while entertaining doubts of 
Jenny, had been uncertain as to their justification. She 
was a little shocked that Beatrice should interest her- 
self in such matters. 

“There have been so many of these cases since the 
war,” she complained. “One can scarcely believe that 
men can so lightly sin when they know they will so 
soon face death.” She thought for a moment. “She 
was always a wild girl,” she added then. 

And at Mrs. Ashleigh’s words, Charlie’s more gen- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


291 


erous and appropriate description flashed into Be- 
atrice’s mind — a wild rose. Jenny was just a wild 
rose in the hedgeside; and love, which recks not of 
death, which thinks only of life and kindliness and 
the immediate present, lingers beside the roses and 
gathers their sweetness while it may. 


XXXIII 


B EATRICE sat with a little bundle of James’ let- 
ters on a table beside her, reading them with in- 
tent, interested face. The last five letters formed a 
series, written daily from behind the fighting line, 
and conveyed so clear a picture of the life James was 
leading, and the work which his capable hands found 
to do, that she could visualise the scenes which he de- 
scribed with such simple unaffected power — could see 
him going quietly and with swift efficiency about his 
ministry, caring for the wounded body as well as for 
the passing soul. It was work which James would do 
so well. 

Although the letters saddened her, she was pleased 
to read them, pleased to get this glimpse into the life 
and work which were now his. That James should 
stand outside the war was unthinkable. Had he not 
been a clergyman he would have been a fighting man. 

“Yesterday,” he wrote in a letter which was dated 
Thursday, nth March 1915, “at half-past seven our 
bombardment of the enemy’s front-line trenches be- 
gan and lasted over half an hour, an incessant and 
most terrific gunfire. The din was deafening. The 
aim must have been amazingly accurate, as nearly 
every shell, I hear, got home. When our men charged 
and took the first line of entrenchments they found 
only mud and blood and • shreds of human bodies. 
292 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


293 


The Germans were taken completely by surprise and 
suffered heavily during this terrible ordeal. Many 
enemy wounded were brought in by the convoys with 
our own wounded, who began to come in shortly after 
noon. Our losses by comparison were not so appall- 
ing, but the casualty list is heavy. 

“Every corner of this building is crowded — men 
lying on blankets spread on the floor so thick one is 
in danger of treading on them, and the wounds are 
shocking. To go round the wards is heartrending. 
I am extremely busy; everyone’s help is needed. The 
doctors and nurses are wonderful — everyone doing the 
work of half a dozen people and getting very little 
rest. Until after midnight I was in the surgery, giv- 
ing what help I was able to give — doing the work of 
a hospital orderly, in short. I won’t attempt to de- 
scribe the scenes I witnessed; it would distress you 
needlessly. But the men are fine, so brave and cheer- 
ful, and many of them die grandly. 

“There is a busy time ahead. We clear simply to 
fill up again at once, as fresh cases come in from 
the field ambulance. The attack has been a brilliant 
success for us; but success in war — and such a war 
— is dearly bought. . . . 

On 1 2th March he wrote briefly and in haste. He 
was too busy to send more than a few hurried lines — 
busy helping with the wounded, and busy burying the 
dead. 

“It is terrible,” he ended. “I feel like a man in 
a dream — some ghastly nightmare. Would to God 
this torture chamber were a dream, and that I might 
wake to find a world at peace! The horror of it all 


294 BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


is indescribable. What a black weight of guilt lies 
on the souls of those responsible for this war. . . 

In the following letter, dated simply Saturday, al- 
though still deeply impressed with the fearful tragedy 
of the carnage, James appeared more collected, and 
able to cope better with the circumstances and with 
his own emotions. He had himself more in hand. 

“1 have rushed my toilet in order to get a few lines 
off to you before the press of the day’s work begins 
for me, and to-day promises to be as full as yesterday. 

“The advance continues, and the casualties are ap- 
palling. The convoys come in all day bringing an 
endless stream of wounded. Yesterday the horror of 
it all seemed to crush me, but this morning I feel 
calmer and am braced to face a new day of inde- 
scribable misery with a better nerve. . . . To see the 
rows of stretchers, lined up so closely that there is 
barely sufficient space to pass between, with their pa- 
thetic burdens, men with terrible head-wounds, with 
mutilated bodies and shattered limbs, is a scene to 
move one to tears. . . . 

“I help to carry the stretchers into the surgery, 
and to cut away the men’s uniforms and hold dress- 
ings and tidy up the mess. The latter is a nauseating 
and endless task. I have literally waded in blood, 
and the poor fellows are so sick. It is difficult to 
cope with it all. The thought has come to me several 
times during the past days how useful you would be 
here. But, thank God! you are spared the horror 
of these sights — the paralysing horror of agony made 
audible. The screams of men in pain have got into 
my brain. 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


295 


“They have sent a couple additional surgeons from 
the base, and we need them. A base hospital, sad 
as it is, is nothing to be compared with this. No 
inferno of man’s imagining could equal this sort of 
thing. The Germans have lost heavily; and in the 
village, which was our objective, the dead of many 
years have been disinterred by our shells and their 
bones scattered among the almost unrecognisable 
forms of the newly killed. War is hellish. The only 
justification for this war lies in the promise that 
through this supreme sacrifice will be bequeathed to 
earth the gift of an undying Peace. . . 

On Sunday, 14th March, he wrote : 

“During this brief respite while I write to you 
my thoughts turn back to the peaceful Sundays at 
home, and I see the dear old church and your dear 
face turned towards me from your seat below the 
pulpit, and it makes me sad to reflect how far off 
these things are. At times I seem to have got into 
another world from which there will be no getting 
back. The strain of the past few days is tiring me 
out with the rest. It is all so hopeless. The stream 
of wounded is unceasing, and there are many deaths 
— sixty dead to be buried in a common grave this 
morning, friend and foe united in death. To me 
there is something beautiful in the idea — one does 
not wage war beyond the grave ; though the big trench 
is the result of the impossibility of getting separate 
graves dug; simply there is not time. 

“I have a number of letters to write for men who 
have passed over — a sad task. But one is glad to do 
anything one can. One grows to love these men; 
they are so splendid, and they shame one’s shrinking 


296 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


horror by their brave cheerfulness. I have prayed 
beside men who have looked at me with a smile in 
their dying eyes, and have crossed over with brave 
words issuing from tortured lips. One youngster 
laughed weakly as he pressed my hand — he could not 
see me, the light had gone out for him. Tt was 
worth it, padre/ he said. ... I wonder. . . . Time 
only can prove his words ; but they strengthened 
me. . . 

The next letter read more hopefully, and conveyed 
a sense of the tremendous relief which a lull in the 
fighting occasioned the busy workers in the clearing 
hospital behind Ncuve Chapelle. 

“A lull at last,” James wrote, “and with it a sort 
of dazed reaction. We are all thankful that the 
worst is over. The attack was very violent, and the 
losses incurred by both sides are immense. I do not 
know how this battle will be regarded in the light 
of the future. It is not easy to determine whether 
results justify the sacrifice; but at least we have dealt 
a severe blow at the Germans and checked their of- 
fensive. 

We are still very busy, and have a number of hope- 
less cases, and men hit in the lungs who have to be 
kept quiet for a time. But, thank God, the frightful 
procession of wounded has ceased. Men still come 
in — sick-list men; but there is nothing harrowing in 
these cases. I have been busy helping to record names 
and positions of graves — a necessary but tedious work 
— and still have my burial reports to make up. But 
after the rush of the past five ghastly days, the mem- 
ory of which is graven upon my mind for all time, 
I feel amazingly leisurable. It has been a great privi- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


297 


lege as well as a terribly sad experience to have been 
here. This kind of thing teaches one to love deeply 
one’s fellow-men. James. 

“P.S. — I forgot to tell you that on Friday I saw 
Edward Ashleigh just for a minute. He came in to 
see a friend who was brought in badly wounded. I 
forget who mentioned his name, but I managed to 
get a word with him and found out he was a cousin. 
He is doing splendid work, they say. His friend was 
suffering from terrible face wounds — one-half of the 
face appeared literally blown away — a most distress- 
ing sight. 

“P.P.S. — Edward’s friend is Major Hurst — a very 
gallant officer. Poor fellow ! his fighting is done. ...” 

Mrs. Ashleigh, entering the room some minutes 
later, concerned lest by giving Beatrice these letters to 
read she had added to the anxiety which she knew the 
girl suffered on her brother’s account, discovered her 
collapsed in her chair with the letter fallen from her 
hand to the floor, her face as colourless as the paper on 
which James had written the information which had 
struck her almost like a physical blow, with even more 
painful effect. 

Seeing that she had fainted, Mrs. Ashleigh went to 
the window and opened it to its widest; then she re- 
turned and stooped for the fallen letter, at which she 
glanced hastily with some idea in her methodical mind 
of judging what had occasioned this distress. Ob- 
serving that it was the letter which referred to Ed- 
ward, she put it with the rest, gathered them together, 
and thrust them into a drawer out of sight. Having 


298 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


accomplished this, she started to do what she could 
towards reviving her niece. 

Consciousness returned to Beatrice as abruptly as 
it had deserted her — horrible, stark, pitiless conscious- 
ness — a painful and comprehensive lucidity in which 
was recalled not only the written words ; a mental pic- 
ture was revealed to her of the once handsome face 
disfigured and with torn and bleeding flesh, with eyes 
dim with agony, with perhaps the life ebbing swiftly 
away. James had not said whether he was dying : 
possibly he had not known. And he had not known 
that it would matter to her. 

She had received a letter from Hurst a few days 
before this letter of James’ had been written. She had 
wondered why she had not heard since: he was so 
regular a correspondent. Now his silence was ex- 
plained. And she did not know where to write to him 
— where he was moved to — whether even he was alive. 
She must find out these things. To remain in uncer- 
tainty was terrible. If the worst had happened, she 
wanted to know. 

“You have suffered a shock,” Mrs. Ashleigh said 
kindly. “It was thoughtless of me. I ought to have 
known. . . . But Edward is quite well. You must 
take a hopeful view.” 

Hopeful ! Beatrice’s troubled eyes sought her face. 
The word conveyed no meaning to her ears. How 
could one be hopeful when one’s dearest were killed 
and maimed? Almost it seemed to her better to die 
outright than be torn and mutilated by this savage 
demon of modern warfare — hurt and permanently in- 
jured, rendered useless perhaps for life. It was all so 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


299 


horrible, so unnecessary. Hopeful! . . . How was 
that possible? And then with a quick flash of mem- 
ory his own words came back to her — a phrase which 
burnt itself into her brain — “Keep a good heart, little 
woman, and carry on.” 

She dropped her head suddenly on Mrs. Ashleigh’s 
shoulder and broke into pitiful weeping. 

“Keep a good heart, little woman, and carry 


XXXIV 


T3EATRICE went back to her nursing, went back 
sooner than Mrs. Ashleigh considered advisable 
in view of the state of her health. Her indisposition 
was mental rather than physical ; and work — practical 
occupation for mind and body — was essential. Be- 
sides, she had to carry on. 

Hurst was in a hospital in France. She received a 
short letter from him, dictated by him; he was too ill 
to write himself. He asked her to write as often as 
she could ; her letters were such a delight to him. And 
at the finish he stated simply, “I’m down and out.” 

The terse information in an unfamiliar handwriting 
brought a lump into her throat, a rush of tears to her 
eyes. She recalled the eager gladness with which he 
had looked forward to taking a part in the war. It 
had been so brief a part. Better to have gone out 
altogether, like Charlie, than to live on, haunted with 
regrets, maimed in body, sentenced perhaps to chronic 
ill-health. 

How far his injuries went she had no means of 
judging. Beyond that first intimation that he was in- 
valided out, he made no reference to his health or to 
his progress. Later he wrote again in his own hand ; 
and eventually he sent the news that he was leaving 
for England. In that letter he spoke unreservedly 
about his condition. 


300 


BEATBICE ASHLEIGH 


301 


“I’m convalescent,” he wrote, “though it will be a 
weary while before the doctors will be quit of me. 
They’ve done wonders ; and I am regarded with tech- 
nical pride as an admirable proof of surgical skill. 
That part is true enough. They have grafted skin 
and bone and everything but blood vessels, I believe; 
and, judged solely from the point of view of what 
surgery can do, the result is unquestionably most grat- 
ifying. But — I shall be a child-frightener until the 
end of my span, and God grant that won’t be a long 
one. I don’t want to see you. Don’t misunderstand 
me and feel hurt at that. I want you to remember 
me as you last saw me. Anyway, you wouldn’t know 
me now. It would be like starting a new acquaint- 
ance — an acquaintance that couldn’t possibly give you 
any sort of pleasure. There was a wound in the lung 
which will leave a chonic cough, a thigh wound which 
leaves a limp; my left arm is all but useless. I’m a 
cripple, you see, with a face all on one side, like those 
indiarubber faces the kids play with, and a temper 
that has got crooked too and bids fair to remain so. 
But I want to hear from you. I want you to go on 
writing, if you will. I know you will do that much 
for me. Some time perhaps I shall see you. I shall 
look out for you. When you are not so much as 
thinking of me I shall be looking at you from among 
the crowd.” 

He had broken off in that letter abruptly, as though 
the writing had been painful, and had simply signed 
his name at the foot. If the writing of it had been 
painful to him, the reading of it was infinitely more 
painful to Beatrice. Pity for him overwhelmed her. 
It struck her as pathetic that this man, struck down in 


302 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


his virile strength, should let his despoiled beauty and 
his crippled body cripple his mind also. This sensi- 
tiveness was morbid. If it were encouraged it would 
embitter his life. He was attaching undue importance 
to the lesser human attributes; strength of body and 
beauty o'* form are ephemeral gifts at best. 

“Once,” she wrote, in her answer to this letter, “you 
accused me of injustice. And I was unjust. But I 
never treated you with so grave an injustice as you 
inflict on me now. You are not fair to me. Is every- 
thing externals with you? If I were plain would you 
cease to like me? — cease to want to see me? What 
does it matter if you come back with a different face 
so long as you are unchanged ? The qualities of brain 
and heart are all that matter. Can’t you realise that 
every scar — a limp even — won in this war adds a 
distinction which no personal beauty can rival? You 
are seeing things altogether wrongly. And you hurt 
me. I won’t insist upon meeting you against your 
will, but please grant your permission. I so long to 
see you again.” 

She did not hear from him in response until some 
time after he arrived in England ; then he wrote very 
briefly : 

“Please write to me. I would so much prefer that 
you do not come.” 

Beatrice wrote — continued to write daily — to him 
with a sick heart. This want of belief in her pained 
her the more because she realised it was something she 
had earned, that it was not merely an injustice meted 


BEATKICE ASHLEIGH 


303 


out by a morbid imagination born of ill-health. He 
did not trust her love; it had failed at an important 
crisis; this to him was a crisis of even greater im- 
portance; it was more personal, struck deeper than 
anything that had gone before; and he felt that it 
must affect her equally with himself. He doubted 
the strength of her love. She had told him once that 
she did not love enough to overlook certain things. If 
her love had not been equal to so much, how should 
it rise above so much more? He did not desire pity 
from her, nor admiration; he wanted only one thing, 
and he was not satisfied to accept less. 

But he could not forfeit her letters. He wanted 
desperately to hear from her. So long as he kept 
that link in the chain unbroken he defeated his ends 
— and he knew it. Human motives are strangely in- 
comprehensible. It is doubtful whether he was ever 
entirely sincere in seeking to avoid her. His avoid- 
ance arose chiefly from a morbid disinclination to al- 
low her to see him as he now was, not from any wish 
to let her pass out of his life. He had no intention 
of losing her altogether. He wanted her friendship 
— wanted to keep in touch with her without seeing her. 
He took comfort in this fancy for a platonic friend-* 
ship. But he knew that if ever she married he would 
feel bitterly jealous — that he would cease to want to 
write to her — that her life and welfare would no 
longer interest him. His attitude was egotistical and 
altogether possessive. Had she realised this it would 
have saved her much needless suffering. 

She grew to believe as the weeks dragged by that 
his love for her had lessened with his faith in her. It 


304 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


was not possible that he could love her and not wish 
to see her. With every letter that he wrote her hopes 
ran high that somewhere between the lines she would 
read a desire to see her; but she was always disap- 
pointed in the expectation : his letters conveyed rather 
a deep sense of gratitude that she should continue to 
write to him and not insist on seeing him. 

Finally Beatrice determined to put an end to this 
intolerable situation. Hurst was in a convalescent 
home in Kent, one of the many fine houses which had 
been given up by their owners for the benefit of 
wounded men. Instead of sending the daily letter, she 
resolved to visit him. She would give in her name at 
the door, and leave it to the impulse of the moment 
whether he denied himself to her or decided to receive 
her. She had come to see the futility of trusting to 
the decision of his considered judgment. She would 
take him unaware, and leave the result to chance. If 
he really wanted her, he would not refuse to see her 
when she was at hand. 

And so it transpired that while Hurst fretted about 
the beautiful grounds of the Kent Home, irritably 
wondering why the hitherto unfailing letter had not 
come to hand, Beatrice stood in the wide, cool hall, 
and gave her name and with it a knot of forget-me- 
nots which, on a sudden impulse, she took from her 
belt. 

The forget-me-nots and the name were delivered to 
Hurst in the garden. He took the flowers in silence, 
and stared at the orderly who brought them almost 
fiercely as he asked where the visitor was. The an- 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


305 


swer to this question was satisfactory. The visitor 
was in the waiting-room, and alone. 

Hurst remained for a while after the orderly left 
him motionless and undecided, with the bunch of wilt- 
ing forget-me-nots clutched tightly in his hand. He 
looked down at the little blue flowers unseeingly, and 
frowned, and reflected deeply. Why had she come? 
. . . He recalled the night of the Lawrences’ dance, 
in the days before war was thought of — recalled every 
word whi h she had spoken then in calm denunciation 
of the impulsive fault of youth — recalled his own feel- 
ings at the time of listening to her puritanical con- 
demnation. He had told himself then that she was 
cold, too cold; that he was a fool to waste a thought 
upon a beautiful, passionless face. He had tried to 
thrust her forth from his thoughts, and had succeeded 
fairly well until the day when he met her again before 
he went to the front. From that day she had lived 
in his memory, a vivid picture of warm, glowing 
beauty, with a sensitive and kindly nature and a ten- 
der, womanly heart. But he believed still that she was 
passionless. He believed that she came to him out of 
pity : it even entered his thoughts that she might marry 
him out of pity. And he did not want her at that. 
If she had not loved him enough in the days when he 
was strong and well favoured, it was not possible that 
she could love him with a selfless devotion now that 
he was the wreck which the war had made him. 

He hesitated, even though he knew that she waited, 
to go to her. He had asked her not to come; and 
she had disregarded this request. He wanted to see 
her; but he hated the thought of the moment when 


306 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


the clear, inquiring eyes would lift to his scarred face 
for the first time. As a rule he was not sensitive in 
regard to his injuries. He had been prepared to give 
everything for the Empire — it had claimed a great deal 
and had left him the unwanted gift of life; but where 
Beatrice was concerned the case was different ; in rela- 
tion to her he was entirely self-conscious, even mor- 
bidly sensitive. He shrank from the idea of meeting 
her eyes. And she had come. She waited for him. 
She had sent him the bunch of forget-me-nots and 
waited for him to go to her. What could he do ? He 
desired, yet dreaded, to see her. If he detected a cer- 
tain look in her eyes, a look which he fully expected 
to see there, it would be the end of everything for him. 
He did not want her compassion. He would rather 
she shrank in aversion than that she should pity him 
out of a kindliness that bore no relation to love. He 
gave her so much : he wanted all, or nothing, in return. 
Half measures wouldn’t satisfy him; an adult nature 
cannot submit to be reared on bread and milk. 

But he must make up his mind now once and for 
all. He wasted time while she waited — troubled, pos- 
sibly, as he was, with a confliction of thought. Should 
he go to her, or should he send a refusal to receive 
her through a messenger? 

He hesitated, and looked again at the bunch of blue 
flowers which he still unthinkingly held ; and the bru- 
tality of the latter course struck him while he looked 
at the limp flowers which, in their fading helplessness, 
seemed to reproach him mutely for harbouring so cruel 
a thought. Of course he would go to her. Of course 
he must go to her. What, after all, did it signify 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


307 


how much more he suffered since he had already suf- 
fered so much? 

Still holding the forget-me-nots in his hand, he 
turned abruptly and limped with painful slowness back 
towards the house. 


XXXV 


T> EATRICE stood at the open French window and 
looked out upon the beautiful grounds of this 
country mansion, which its owner had given tempo- 
rarily for the use of the men who had gone forth to 
safeguard these homes with the humbler homes of 
England, and had come back broken and ill from the 
war ; and while she stood there, expectant and uncer- 
tain and curiously nervous, a train of thought pre- 
sented itself unbidden, demanding recognition, refus- 
ing to be set aside. The whole world was changed 
for her. All her old beliefs and prejudices were 
crumbling, slipping away from her, leaving her face 
to face with the reality of the domination of love — 
its power to fight for and defend its own, to excuse, 
even to justify, any act committed in its name. Only 
one thing appeared to her of vital importance; every- 
thing else was subordinated to that. She had come 
prepared to fight for that thing — to obtain it. Above 
all the petty, trifling jealousies that once had rankled, 
above the distresses of ill-health and altered looks, 
her love for the man she had come to see rose supreme, 
importunate, insistent. She wanted him. It did not 
matter to her that he was altered in looks — that his 
health was impaired, his body crippled; were he de- 
formed and hideous, he would be still the man whom 
long ago she had loved when she had wandered with 
308 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


309 


him in careless enjoyment beside the moonlit waters 
of the Thames. 

And then abruptly she caught sight of him limping 
painfully towards her, the whole of the left side droop- 
ing from the shoulder, like the side of a person suf- 
fering from paralysis. She did not recognise him at 
first. She mistook him for one of the patients whom 
she did not know. And then suddenly her eyes fell 
to the bunch of forget-me-nots, gripped tightly in 
his hand. Something clutched at her heart and ar- 
rested its beating, and then set it beating again wildly 
as he came on slowly and with difficult movement ; the 
unfamiliar face showing scarred and discoloured in 
the sunlight. 

When he came nearer he turned his head; and the 
right side was presented to her gaze in its dark un- 
impaired beauty; and she saw the face she loved, 
which at first she had failed to recognise, and beheld 
in this halting, limping, one-sided figure the figure 
which had pleased her senses in the old days by rea- 
son of its graceful strength. The face which she had 
not known, twisted and scarred beyond belief, was 
only the uglier side of the face she remembered so 
well. 

She stepped through the window quickly and went 
swiftly towards him and held out both her hands in 
greeting. 

“Fred!” she cried. 

He was taken by surprise. He halted, and stared 
down at her for a moment in perplexity — stared in 
puzzled wonderment at this strange Beatrice in her 
unfamiliar clothes. He had known that she was a 


310 


BEATEICE ASHLEIGH 


nurse; but, oddly, he had not thought of her in uni- 
form. He noticed the print dress under her cloak, 
the bright hair showing beneath the close-fitting, blue- 
veiled bonnet, and his face broke into a twisted smile. 

“The war has changed us both,” he said, with the 
short, dry cough which his wound had left. 

He followed her into the room, and swung round 
with difficulty and confronted her. 

“I told you not to come,” he said. 

She was deeply moved. He saw that. He knew 
quite well that she had difficulty in maintaining her 
control. He stood looking down at her, frowning, 
trying to hide from her the delight he experienced in 
seeing her again, the pleasure her coming gave him 
with the absence of any shrinking or pity in her look. 
He had watched jealously for either, had been quick 
to read her expression. She had not, he had observed 
with satisfaction, refrained from looking at him; but 
the clear eyes had expressed only a deep interest; he 
had been unable to detect either aversion or over- 
whelming pity in their steady gaze. 

“I know,” she said, “I have disregarded your re- 
quest. But it wasn’t very kind of you to impose that 
condition. I wanted so much to see you. I had to 
come.” 

“Well,” he said, with grim humour, “now that you 
see me, what do you make of me?. I rather resemble 
a badly executed caricature, don’t you think ?” 

“I can’t tell,” she answered, smiling suddenly. “You 
are such a long way above me, so unapproachable. 
I want a closer view.” 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


311 


“Artful little thing !” he said, smiling also. “Come 
over here and sit on the sofa.” 

He seated himself with the uninjured side towards 
her; and Beatrice, sitting close to him, so close that 
her shoulder touched his arm, would not have known, 
but for the previous view of the permanently scarred 
and so sadly altered features, that he was in any 
sense changed. 

“It is the old you on this side,” she said. 

He laughed shortly. 

“A man has two sides to his face,” he returned. 
“It isn’t possible to see only the one.” 

“No,” she answered. “I wouldn’t wish to. After 
all, the other side is far the finer.” 

He turned it deliberately towards her. 

“That is how people feel they ought to talk,” he 
said. “But do you really think so? Aren’t you pretty 
well shocked at the sight?” 

“Shocked — yes,” she replied. “If someone smashed 
me in the face, wouldn’t you be shocked too? But 
would it alter your feeling for me, do you think?” 

He put an arm about her and tried to draw her to 
him, but she held him off. 

“It would,” she cried quickly. “Men are like that 
— it’s the outward thing with all of you. And the 
outward thing matters so little.” 

There were tears in her eyes. She attempted to 
blink them away ; but she knew that he saw them, that 
the sight of them troubled him; she read his distress 
in his face. 

“And do you really believe,” he said, “that it’s just 
your beauty I love? I doubt whether any man has 


312 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


loved you for your face alone. Beauty is a pleasant 
possession, but it can’t command love. It wasn’t until 
I grew to know you that I came to love you. I ad- 
mired you naturally from the first — any man would. 
But admiration is altogether inferior. It doesn’t grip. 
I love you . . . you know that. I’ve told you so often. 
It’s because I love you that I preferred not to see 
you again.” 

“I don’t understand that,” she returned, regarding 
him with earnest questioning. 

“A man when he loves hopes to possess,” he said 
— “love springs from that desire. And I can’t have 
you. If you didn’t love enough before, how should 
you love enough now? . . . I’ve tried to look at the 
thing dispassionately — to get square in my thoughts 
with this business. And I’ve come to see that there 
is only one possible course for me. I’ve got to give 
up seeing you — I can only be platonic at a distance. 
When I see you, when I hear your voice, I’m done. 
I’ve simply got to make love to you. ... I ache for 
you. . . .” 

He broke off suddenly, hindered from saying more 
by the short, insistent cough. When it ceased he turned 
to her again with a frown of querulous impatience. 

“You see,” he said irritably, “what a miserable 
wreck I am.” 

Beatrice had been watching him while he talked; 
now she sat closer to him with eyes averted. 

“You’ve done all the talking so far,” she said — 
“now let me. I’ve a lot of things I want to say. It 
isn’t easy. ... You see, I know you doubt me. That 
isn’t altogether surprising. I’ve given you cause. I 


BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


313 


didn’t know — until you went to the front how much I 
wanted you — how much I cared. Do you suppose that 
your damaged face matters to me? In a sense, of 
course, it matters. But I love that scarred face far 
dearer than ever I should have loved it unspoilt by 
this war. I love you. I don’t care any longer about 
anything that happened in the past. If you have got 
square in your thoughts, I have got square in mine; 
and I know now that those things don’t weigh with 
me any longer. I exaggerated their importance be- 
fore.” 

He flushed quickly. 

“Quite sure?” he asked. “Don’t you think you are 
allowing yourself perhaps to be influenced by recent 
events ?” 

“No.” She smiled faintly. “It’s not war enthu- 
siasm. That, if it ever gripped me, wore off very 
early. I think that without the war I must have dis- 
covered that I could not be happy without you. I 
want to be near you. I don’t care about anything else. 
Dear, surely you believe me when I say I love you 
better than anyone in all the world? It was never 
for any physical quality that I loved you.” 

She put up a hand and pulled the scarred face down 
to hers and laid her warm, fresh lips against it. 

“I love you so,” she whispered. 

He attempted to put her from him. 

“It’s not fair to you,” he protested, holding him- 
self stiffly in check. “I’m a wreck for life. It isn’t 
right to tie you to me. I’d be a scoundrel to do that.” 
He tried to speak in matter-of-fact tones, but she was 
not in the least deceived. “We’ll get used to it — both 


314 BEATRICE ASHLEIGH 


of us. You’ll marry someone else — some sound fel- 
low. . . . Don’t think that I am selfish enough to 
wish anything else. I hope you will . . . only — I 
don’t want to see him.” 

She drew back her head and looked at him steadily 
with her clear, understanding eyes, a faint pucker be- 
tween the brows, the sensitive mouth a little trem- 
ulous. 

“And do you really believe that?” she asked. 

“Oh!” he said jerkily. “Life’s all forgetting. . i . 
Why not?” 

“Because,” she answered quietly, “I know — and you 
know — that to the heart which has listened to the 
voice, the echoes do not speak.” 

Hurst had no answer to that. He put his arm 
about her and held her close. 













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